BIRD ON A WIRE
by Nightvision55
Summary: What if Justin hadn't interrupted Brian's job offer to Ethan? Brian makes his biggest mistake. Title taken from Leonard Cohen's song. Prologue to series - hope you like it. Spoilers: Season two Disclaimer: QAF belongs to Cowlip
1. Prologue

BIRD ON A WIRE

PROLOGUE

"The job's yours, if you want it."

He glances at me, chewing his lip, that fucking stupid hairy caterpillar on his chin jiggling – a couple of thousand bucks would make a lot of difference to someone who has to peddle his talent on the street to eat.

"Of course … I'd expect a small favour in return." I know he'll get that – just because he looks like an idiot doesn't mean he is one.

I can see the conflict in his dark eyes; he wants the money, wants to grab the publicity; but is he tempted enough to bite?

I up the ante and smile.

He blinks and clutches his violin case against his scruffy coat like shield. He swallows hard and then nods suddenly. "What did you have in mind?"

Bingo. God, I'm good.

* * *

JUSTIN

I run up the stairs, glad to be out of the wind. It's been unusually cold for late March with even some flurries of sleety snow. My eyes are watering and I'm looking forward to unwinding with a hot drink before Brian gets home.

I drag back the heavy door and step into the Loft. I can already hear the sounds, the moans.

Oh Christ. Just what I need.

I'm about to turn round and walk straight back out – I figure I'll go to the diner until Brian's finished entertaining – when I see something lying on the coffee table. A violin case.

_A fucking VIOLIN CASE?_

I make my way slowly towards the bedroom, blood pounding in my head, hearing the noises getting louder and louder and thinking _no God, oh no God, _and Brian looks straight at me and smirks.

"You're home early, Sunshine. I believe you know Ian?"

I don't think I say anything. I don't think so. I just run, hearing Ethan yelling after me; I half bolt, half fall down the stairs, out of the door, and run and run and run until I can't breath anymore.

* * *

"Fuck! _Fuck!" _

He's scrambling off the bed, grabbing for his clothes. "You bastard! You fucking _bastard!"_

I watch as he bends over, struggling to get his foot into his pants, and I find myself reflecting that whatever attraction Justin might have seen in him, it certainly wasn't the guy's ass.

"You planned this … you knew he was going to walk in on us!" His eyes are wild.

"No," I tell him calmly. "Just a lucky coincidence."

Ian pulls on his coat and takes off at a run. I hear the Loft door yanked back and then his feet pounding down the stairs.

I get up, padding over to close the door behind him and then head back to bed, grabbing a bottle of Jim Beam en route. I lay back on the pillows and take a swallow, feeling it burn all the way down.

It was actually true, I hadn't known Justin would be home early. Although I can't deny the possibility had occurred to me.

At the time, it had seemed like fate – walking to the diner for lunch, hearing the violin music, realising that the guy playing was actually Justin's little boyfriend – Ian Gold or whatever-the-fuck. And then I had one of my genius inspirations to find out how much of a gold-digger the little fucker was, so to speak. And when I'd looked up from ploughing Ian, when I'd seen that small blond figure facing the reality of what a hypocritical sack of shit his adoring lover actually was, it had seemed like a positively brilliant idea.

Only now, remembering the look of devastation on Justin's face for that stunned second before he turned and ran; only now that my pleasure in that particularly dirty little victory has faded; now I realise that I recognise that expression. It's the same one he was wearing the instant before Hobbs hit him with a baseball bat.


	2. Chapter 1

BIRD ON A WIRE

CHAPTER ONE

JUSTIN

I lean against the building, gasping, choking. All I can see is Brian's sweaty, straining face; that triumphant grin plastered across it. And the horror on Ethan's as he realised who was watching them.

How did Brian know? How the fuck did he know? Sure, he'd been suspicious, I couldn't help that; but I'd been pretty careful. He must have picked up on my sudden obsession with violin music; remembered my birthday treat, noted the name on the CD I was constantly playing and put two and two together. Oh fuck, I was so naïve.

I knew how single-minded he could be when he wanted. How much he actually saw even while he was doing his_ I'm-Brian-Kinney-and-you-bore-me-too-much-to-give-a-shit_ routine. It wouldn't have taken much digging for him to have run Ethan down – his photo was on the CD case, for Chrissakes.

I suddenly realise my cell is ringing. Automatically I answer.

"Justin! _Justin! _I didn't know it was _him!_" Ethan's voice is frantic. "I have to talk to you … explain … Justin, _please!_"

I hurl the thing at the wall before me and pieces of phone fly everywhere.

Didn't know it was Brian? Is that supposed to make it better? He promised me faithfulness didn't he? Didn't he say so while we were lying on his floor sharing that fucking picnic, that all he wanted was a boyfriend who wanted to be with _him _instead of out tricking all the time?

Wasn't that the reason I left Brian for him?

"Liar, fucking _liar!" _I whisper. I replay the image of them together, complete with soundtrack – my present and past lover fucking in my own bed – and my stomach heaves and I deposit my lunch in a heap on the pavement. I retch until there's nothing left and then I straighten up, feeling the familiar ache beginning behind my eyes, knowing that it's only the start of something much worse.

Fuck no, I can't take a migraine now. I dig in my backpack, find the painkillers I always carry and dry-swallow a couple. I'm supposed to take them with food, and my stomach is as empty as it's ever likely to be, but I really couldn't care at this point.

Cautiously I look around, wondering if anybody has seen me collapsing with exhaustion, trashing my cell and then barfing my guts up. I realise I have no idea where I am. I'm standing in an alley between old, derelict looking warehouses, so I must be down by the river somewhere. I know I've run a long way from familiar territory.

Where do I go? What the fuck do I do? I can feel my breathing begin to quicken, my chest tightening – I'm going to panic; I'm miles away from anywhere and anyone I know and I'm going to freak out.

I have to get inside. It's the only way I'll be safe. I hurry down the alley, shoving against creaking doors and windows, searching frantically for a way to get under cover. I'll break in if I have to. But then I spot a broken pane above the first floor landing of a fire escape and I race up the stairs. I reach through the gap, scrabbling for the latch. The glass rips the arm of my coat but I don't pull back – I tug until the rusty fastening gives and then I shove up the window with a strength that comes from pure desperation.

I throw in my backpack, boost myself up, wriggle through and fall in a heap on the bare, filthy wooden floor. I reach up to pull the window closed, scramble into the nearest corner and press my back into it, wrapping my arms around my knees and burying my face in them. I don't want to see or hear. I don't want to think. I just want everything to fucking stop.

* * *

I don't know how long I huddle there, shivering. The light's beginning to fade and so it must be five, maybe six o'clock. I lift my head and take a look around. The space is large and bare except for old newspapers and boxes and dirt and spiders.

I realise this was probably what the Loft looked like when Brian first bought it. The thought makes me feel a little more comfortable, a little safer.

I can feel my right arm throbbing. There's a bloodstained gash in the sleeve of my jacket; I gingerly ease it off and see a matching rip in my shirt and more blood. I unbutton the cuff and carefully ease up the sleeve – there's a long cut up my forearm; wincing, I try to work out how deep it is. It's bled a lot, but I convince myself it's only shallow. I unwind my scarf and clumsily tie it around my arm, using my left hand and my teeth. It's not much of a bandage but it's the best I can manage.

What the_ fuck_ am I going to do?

I have my last week's wages and most of my tips in my wallet. My backpack. That's it. I don't even have a cell anymore – but then, I don't have anyone to call, do I?

Not true, I could call any of them – Deb, my Mom, Linds – any of them would come and find me, let me stay while I worked out my options; they'd give me all the support I'd need. But there's no way I can do it; no way I can stand their mothering, their interfering, their sympathy; their _poor-justin_ing.

I can't fucking take it. Not when I know, and they know, that it's all poor little Justin's stupid fucking fault.

I fell for Ethan's bullshit romance hook, line and sinker. Despite all the evidence around me -Brian's parents, Mom and Dad, Michael and Dr. Dave, Ted and that Blake guy. Even Mel and Linds – they'd been together for six years, had Gus, but that hadn't stopped Mel from cheating. I'd still behaved like a stupid teenage girl and gone head over heels for the first dewy-eyed asshole to buy me flowers and tell me how much he adored me.

I feel tears of hurt and self-pity beginning to build, and I grind my eyes fiercely with my thumbs. Fuck it, I will _not_ cry. I will _not _be a little faggot.

I will not do what Brian expects, and bawl like the child he believes me to be.

Brian. How he must be laughing. He and Mikey are probably drinking right this minute, gloating over how he fiddled the fiddler.

I remember the way he'd looked at me – not surprised, not sorry; just that mocking leer saying_ see, Sunshine? See how much trust to put in someone's words?_

My only comfort is that Ethan fell at the first opportunity too, for whatever bullshit Brian had dangled in front of _him_.

I wish Daph were here. Fuck her cousin in Philadelphia for choosing now to get married and taking away the one person I could possibly talk to about this, the only real friend I have. Daph's never afraid to call me on my fuck-ups but she never says _I told you so_ either. I can trust her judgement.

But Daph's not here; I'm all on my own.

God. I'm all on my own, for the first time in my life.

In that instant I know I can't go back. It's not just a question of facing Brian again, it's about seeing _anyone_ who knows him, or knows me, or knows about our sordid little life together. I can't stomach going through the shame and the humiliation of having proved once again exactly how pathetic I am.

How pathetic I've always been.

The last time I left Pittsburgh I used Brian's credit card, knowing he would find me; wanting him to find me. This time nobody will find me. This time I won't come back.

I realise that it's nearly dark now. I go and gather up some boxes and papers and squash them together into some kind of bed and curl up on it, using my backpack as a pillow and shoving my hands into my armpits to try to keep them warm. I remember that last night I was snug in Brian's bed, dreaming of dark eyes filled with love, tousled black hair and Delius serenades.

This time I can't stop the tears.

_  
********************_


	3. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

BRIAN

I get a call from the fiddler mid morning.

"He's missed his classes – he hasn't rung in, he just hasn't shown. Is he with you?"

Normally I'd have told him to mind his own fucking business, but I'm a little uneasy myself by now. Damned if I'll let him hear it, though. "I'm afraid I haven't seen him since our little show yesterday."

"_Shit!_ I tried calling him yesterday but it just went dead, and now there's nothing, not a ring-tone, no voice mail, nothing!" He sounds panicked.

"Do you know Daphne? She's his best friend, that's where he usually holes up when he's wounded. I've got her number I think."

"Yeah, I've seen her and Justin talks about her. But he said the other day that she'd gone to some wedding – I'm sure she's not in town."

Fuck. I'd been all but certain that Justin had spent the night crying on Daphne's shoulder. Now I was going to have to do some thinking.

"Well, I wouldn't worry too much. I'm sure he'll show when he feels like it," I say, keeping my voice neutral.

I can hear him breathing. Then he says quietly, "You don't give a damn, do you?" He laughs. "You really don't give a shit about him!"

I snort. "Just like you didn't, when it came to choosing between him and your career. Nobody twisted your arm to let me fuck you - it was your call, and your decision. Live with it, Ian."

I slam the phone down on him.

* * *

I ring the munchers.

"Brian! Hi!" Lindsey says, and I know immediately that Justin's not there because she wouldn't sound so bright, so pleased to hear me if the lad had been bending her ear about me all night – she isn't that good an actress. So I just make some small talk about Gus (which is kind of suspicious in itself but I can't think of any other excuse off the cuff), make interested noises while she prattles on, and then sit drumming my fingers trying to think where else Justin might hiding.

I discount Jennifer. Much as the boy loves his Mom. I seriously doubt that he'd take his troubles to her under any circumstances, especially when his pride's involved.

He wouldn't go to Michael. Even though they've become closer since Rage, Justin knows that Mikey is still definitely in my corner. Besides, Mikey was the one who confirmed Sunshine's little affair in the first place, although Justin wouldn't necessarily be aware of that. But I'm sure Michael would have let me know if a distraught Boy Wonder had landed on his doorstep.

Debbie's a much better bet. Probably he's already ensconced back in Mikey's old room being fed milk and cookies while Deb berates me for being the insensitive asshole I undoubtedly am.

I'll find out at lunch.

* * *

I find out as soon as walk in the door.

"Okay, where is he?" Debbie's voice cuts through the babble of voices. "He said he didn't have classes this afternoon so he promised to help out through lunch. Don't tell me he's fucking forgotten!"

My search parameters are narrowing rapidly. Emmett and Ted and Mikey are seated in our usual booth so I walk over to join them, hotly pursued by an irate Deb.

"Didn't you hear me, asshole? I said, 'Where the fuck is Sunshine?'"

I sit down next to Mikey and take a deep breath. Time to bite the bullet.

"I don't know, Deb. I haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon. I thought maybe he'd be here."

Four pairs of eyes focus on me. Michael looks decidedly uncomfortable.

Deb snorts. "So what have you done to piss him off this time?"

"Don't blame Brian, Ma," Michael says quietly, "it's what Justin's done that's the problem."

Everybody looks at him.

"Well, I wouldn't expect to hear anything else from _you,_" Deb says heatedly, glaring at her son. "Since when do you ever think that Mister-Goddamn-Perfect here could …"

"He's been seeing someone else!" Michael shouts, glaring right back. "I saw them together."

There's silence; then Ted chuckles. "I think that's old news, Michael."

"I don't mean tricking," Michael snaps. "I mean _seeing_ someone … as in dating someone."

Another silence.

"So," Debbie says, snapping her gum. "Sunshine's finally come to his senses and realised what he's missing. Good for him!"

"Ma …"

"No, I mean it, Michael. It's about time he found somebody who appreciates him, instead of this arrogant, self-centred, irresponsible prick of a best friend of yours. And as soon as I see Sunshine I'm gonna tell him just that!"

"Feel free, Deb," I tell her. "Unfortunately it's not quite that simple. Wherever Justin is at the moment, he's not likely to be with his new boyfriend. Not after what he found me doing to said new boyfriend at the Loft yesterday."

Ted's coffee cup freezes half way to his mouth. "Oh, please tell me that doesn't mean what I think it does."

I shrug.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Deb's voice climbs several octaves. "You _fucked _the guy Sunshine's seeing? At the Loft? And he walked in on you?"

Ted's looking at me with a strange expression. "Pretty low, Brian. Even for you."

"He ran off. He looked pretty upset. I thought he'd be at Daphne's or with Mel and Linds, but he isn't."

"Pretty upset? _Pretty upset?_ After all that poor boy's been through, you have to go and do that to him, you heartless fucking selfish fucking piece of shit …"

"Okay, Deb." I cut her off mid-rant. "There were two of us involved, you know. It just seems the lad has an unfortunate taste in men."

That's when she hits me. Hard.

Everyone suddenly finds somewhere else to look. Even Michael won't meet my eyes.

I turn to Emmett. He's the only one who hasn't said anything; he's just finishing off the last forkfulls of doughnut. I'm surprised because I know he's always had a really big soft spot for his Baby.

"What about you, Honeycutt? Don't you want to have your pennyworth?"

Emmett chews and swallows, then daintily wipes his lips with a paper napkin. Finally he looks up at me.

"You know, Brian, we all understand you're an asshole. We, your friends, try to overlook what is certainly a major character defect because we realise that it's all part of the Kinney Experience – along with the clothes, the Loft, the Jeep, the tricks; it's what's expected of you, and of course, you never fail to deliver." His tone is conversational; only the occasional tremor in his voice and the way he is wadding the napkin into a ball between his fingers betrays his agitation.

"Personally, I always believed that deep down you were in fact a decent person who would stand by your friends when they needed you, so I tried to make allowances for the occasional fall from grace." He smiles brightly. "Like God. Despite my frequent misgivings and all evidence to the contrary, I've always tried to hold on to the thought that there _is _Someone up there watching, and that maybe it all _will_ come out right in the end. No matter how deep in doo-doo you seem to be."

Emmett takes a deep breath and his voice no longer trembles. "Well, Mr. Kinney, let me tell you to your face that if it was God's will to put that sweet, beautiful boy on _your_ must-have list then He's not God at all – he's _FUCKING SATAN HIMSELF!"_

Emmett's voice rises to a shriek and he hurls the balled-up napkin as hard as he can. It hits me square on the nose and plops into my coffee.

In any other circumstances it would have been funny.

Ted puts his arm round Emmett's shoulders. "Come on, Em, it's alright."

"No, Teddy, this time it's _not _alright. This time it's shameful, and despicable." He turns back to me. "So what happened, Brian? You finally got tired of playing the Good Samaritan? But instead of being brave enough to admit to his face that you didn't want him around anymore, you have to ignore him and humiliate him and do everything you can to push the poor baby into someone else's arms. And when it finally happens, then … guess what? Do you wish him well and walk away? Do you leave him alone to get on with his life? No, you suddenly remember that just because you don't want him it doesn't mean anyone else can have him, so you take it upon yourself to shatter whatever illusions he still has left the same way you always do. With your fucking dick!"

I find myself wondering what alternative universe I've ended up in. This isn't the Emmett we all know and love, Nelly-Bottom Supreme of Liberty Avenue. He's pissed. Really, really pissed. And his eyes – okay, I'm used to irritation, outrage, disbelief, anger; that's par for the course. I pride myself on being able to provoke those reactions, most especially in the people who actually like me. But I've always been able to detect a lurking admiration too.

This is more like … contempt. Isn't it the same expression I saw in Ted's eyes, too?

I think it is.

I refuse to drop my gaze. "Let's just take your opinion of me as read," I tell Emmett. "I'm not here to make excuses or apologies to any of you. But believe it or not, I would like to know where the kid is and be sure that he's okay. So can we leave the character assassination until after we find him? Because now I have to speak to Jennifer, and Mel and Linds, and, God help me, Daphne. Whatever's left of me by tonight I promise you can string up from the nearest lamppost."

They do what I expect and put their concern for Justin before everything else. Deb starts on the diner's customers, grilling each of them before she takes an order. Mikey, Ted and Emmett hit Liberty Avenue to scour the bars.

I go back to the Loft, hoping he'll be there. Or at least that he might have come back, taken his stuff. Anything. But all his shit is still where he left it; his clothes, his drawings, even his meds. Wherever he is, the only things he has with him are what's in his backpack; a few books, pencils, his sketchpad. So I sit down and start calling his female support group, and by the time I've had both balls and my dick verbally torn off by each of them I have a mother-fucker of a headache.

And no news of Justin.

That evening we check out every club, bar and bath house we can think of, and I spend the rest of the night prowling the streets in the Jeep talking to the hustlers.

48 hours after I've last seen him I walk into the local precinct and report Justin Taylor as officially missing.

TBC

BIRD ON A WIRE 


	4. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

"_Mr. Kinney, this is Detective Weissmann at the 14__th__. Would you be able to come down to the station, sir?"_

I feel a cold finger press against the base of my skull.

"_Have you heard something?"_

There's a pause.

"We've had an item of clothing handed in. I'd like you to take a look, see if you can identify it."

* * *

BRIAN

He ushers me into a small office; a short, wiry guy with thinning black hair, a harassed expression and a shit taste in suits. He gestures me to take one of the chairs. He sits down at the other side of the desk and opens a drawer. He brings out largish plastic evidence bag and lays it before me.

"You said in your description that Justin was wearing a P.I.F.A. scarf when you last saw him? Like this one?"

I nod because I can't speak.

"As you can see, it's quite heavily bloodstained."

"Where did you find it?" I manage to say. My voice sounds like it wants to break.

"The janitor at a public convenience downtown discovered it in the trash. He handed it in because he saw it was a college scarf and he thought the amount of blood was suspicious." He looks at me with something like compassion. "We'll check the blood with Justin's records. Of course, there may be a simple explanation but I don't want to mislead you, Mr. Kinney. If it_ is_ a match then I have to tell you it doesn't look good."

No shit, Sherlock.

He promises to keep me informed, shakes my hand and shows me the way out. All I can think of as I make my way back to the Jeep is another blood-stained scarf. And I can't unlock the door because my hands are shaking too badly.

* * *

DR. ALEX WILDER

Sometimes, after a really shit day there's no other option but to go out, sink a few beers and let it all go away.

Sometimes that solution sucks.

The night had started off fine; I'd hit Woody's about nine, found a nice quiet table and settled in to observe the local wildlife. It was always entertaining.

I'd felt the tension begin to ease away – the way your feet feel when you take off those new loafers which you knew were too fucking small when you bought them, but which with your usual optimism you'd assumed would wear in.

I'd gone up to the bar for another beer, and then I'd realised that the guy sitting on the stool next to me was Brian. "Hey."

He'd looked round at me, and I hadn't needed to count the empty shot glasses in front of him to know that he was wasted. His hair looked like something was nesting in it, his shirt had wet patches where he'd slopped drink down it, and an unlit cigarette dangled unheeded from his fingers.

I'd watched him struggle to focus, noting how dilated his pupils were. Finally recognition had dawned and a grin had spread across his face – one of those grins that always make me think of the theme to _Jaws. _"Doc!" he'd proclaimed loudly.

Great. Pissed, tweaked and mean. Wonderful combination.

I'd looked around for the rest of the usual suspects, but I couldn't see any of them, not even Michael. "You alone?"

He'd gestured around extravagantly. "All, all alone, alone on a wide, wide sea."

"And no saint to take pity on your misery?"

He'd put the cigarette to his lips, fished in his jacket pocket, produced his Zippo and fumbled it alight. I'd resisted the impulse to hold his hand steady as he'd attempted to light up. Eventually he'd managed to co-ordinate. "Who says I'm miserable?" he'd asked through a long exhalation of smoke.

I'd smiled. "You're the one quoting _The Ancient Mariner."_

"Seemed appropriate. He was shunned, too."

I'd let that go. "I remember the last drunken conversation we had. You accused _me_ of being eloquent."

He hadn't answered.

"How's he doing? Justin?"

Brian's head had snapped up, and for a second I'd thought he was going to hit me. "How the _fuck_ would I know?"

That had been three hours ago.

* * *

I half drag, half carry Brian into the lounge – there's no way I can get him upstairs into a bed, he's just too fucking heavy. In actual fact I'm amazed that he's not comatose, considering the amount of alcohol he's consumed. He must have the constitution of an ox.

I lower him down onto the rug, pull off his boots and jacket and roll him onto his stomach. I don't want him choking if he vomits. He grumbles something as I shove a cushion under his head but I don't think he's really aware of what's happening. By the time I've come back downstairs with blankets for us both he's snoring.

I cover him up, take off my own shoes and coat and settle down on the couch. I'm not risking leaving him alone while he's in this state.

I lie there with my hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what's pushed his self-destruct button; I haven't seen him so out of it since the bad time after Justin was assaulted, when Brian hadn't seemed to be in a downward spiral so much as in free-fall. I assume that it's the same root cause now; from the lucid parts of his conversation I gather that the boy has gone missing and Brian (and everyone else) seems to see it as his fault, with predictable results. It's not as if he's the only one to use booze, drugs and gratuitous sex as guilt avoidance – I wouldn't have a job if that were the case - it's just that other people don't tend to do it with his energy and determination.

I close my eyes, waiting for sleep, and I find myself wishing I'd just spent a quiet night in with a movie.

* * *

BRIAN

Ow. Ow, fuck.

I prize my eyelids open, realise that's a big mistake and screw them shut again. My head feels someone's trying to bash his way out through my skull. I lie very still, hoping whoever it is will go back to sleep.

He doesn't.

Slowly I become aware that wherever the fuck I am, it's not home. My face is pressed into some kind of strange-smelling cushion, and I'm lying on what can only be carpet-covered floor. My back's as unhappy as my head is.

I can hear music playing quietly, and then a deep, gravelly voice begins to sing.

_Like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir,_

_I have tried in my way to be free._

Double fuck.

_Like a worm on a hook, like a knight in some old-fashioned book,_

_I have saved all my ribbons for thee._

No, that's too much. I push myself up, ignoring my body's clamour to stay exactly where I am and stagger in the direction of the sounds.

I'm in some house I don't recognise; I make my way into the hall and follow the song towards a door at the end. I find myself in a large, bright kitchen, where a slender silver-haired man is doing breakfast stuff. I can smell coffee, eggs, toast.

_If I have been unkind, I hope you will put it out of your mind;_

_If I have been untrue, I hope you know it was never to you._

I groan, and the man turns towards me, skillet in hand. "Hey. I was just about to wake you. Thought you could use something to eat." Alex. Last night, Woody's. He must have brought me back to his place.

"What you can do is turn off that fucking dirge. I don't need fucking Leonard Cohen this morning."

"Actually it's noon," Alex says with a smile, "and I've always found him kind of soothing." He dunks the skillet in the sink, picks up two plates of scrambled eggs and sets them down on the breakfast bar. "Help yourself."

I really don't feel like eating, but the way my gut's roiling I figure that maybe putting something in it other than Tequila or bourbon might be a good idea. So I perch myself on a stool, pick up a fork and start picking at the eggs while Alex pours coffee and turns Leonard down a notch.

It's not enough.

Alex sits across from me and begins to shovel forkfulls into his mouth. "Not a fan, then?"

I take a bite of toast. "Not into all that self-pitying bullshit."

He raises his eyebrows. "I think there's a little more to it than that. Cohen's just marvellous at vocalising his emotions – grief, loss, jealousy. Hate. I think it makes people a little uneasy to hear a man publicly baring his soul. Only women are supposed to do that."

I remember Lindsey saying much the same thing. She'd discovered Cohen in college and had made a determined effort to convert me. She hadn't succeeded. The guy's Canadian, for Chrissakes. And you sure as hell can't dance to him.

I swallow coffee. It's strong, hot, good; it makes my stomach feel better, even if my head's still pounding. Thinking about having to call Cynthia and explain why I haven't shown for work isn't improving matters.

"Well, thanks for the use of your floor, Doc, and for breakfast, but I really do have to be out of here."

Alex puts down his cup. "Hold on, I'll give you a lift home."

"It's okay, you've done enough already. I'll get a cab." I need some fresh air.

I stand up and go back to lounge, retrieve my boots and jacket. Alex has followed me, and he stands in the doorway watching as I get my shit together and check that I've still got my wallet cell and keys.

"Brian. If you need to talk, I'll listen."

"Told you before, I don't see shrinks."

He smiles. "I'm not talking about coming to the clinic. I just mean we can go for a drink some time. If you ever need an objective opinion. Or just some company."

I smile back. "Don't worry, Doc. I'm _fabuloso."_

I put on my sunglasses and he opens the front door for me.

* * *

Lyrics from Like a Bird on a Wire by Leonard Cohen


	5. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

.

JUSTIN

I sit huddled up on a bench in the Baltimore bus terminal, trying to warm my hands on the cup of takeaway coffee. It's my third one, but then I've been sitting here for most of the afternoon. I treated myself to a doughnut with the first but that's all I've eaten today. I don't have much money left after paying for the ticket and I have no idea how long it's going to have to last me.

I don't have much of an idea about anything, really.

The cut in my right arm is throbbing, and I wonder dully if it's infected. I'd bought bandages at an all-night drugs store and had done a quick clean up at the first public lavatory I found, washing the cut and wrapping it up, keeping a wary eye out for any early morning users. I'd got most of the blood out of the sleeve of my jacket, although there wasn't much I could do about the rip in the material. At least nobody was likely to ask questions about that. Then I'd ditched my bloodstained scarf in the trash and buried it under a load of paper napkins, walked to the Greyhound terminal and jumped on the first bus to leave.

And now I'm 200 miles away from home, cold, hungry, tired and miserable, with less than a hundred bucks in my pocket and if I cared enough I'd be fucking scared.

I know I need to come up with some kind of plan; the clock on the wall behind me tells me it's nearly five o'clock and I need to decide whether to rent a cheap room for the night, or to save the money and try to find a hostel or shelter of some sort.

Instead I huddle up a little more and rest my head against the wall. I can feel my eyelids drooping despite the cold, and my thoughts start to drift.

When I was a little kid, I used to have this strange fixation about public lavatories. If I were out somewhere and I had to go, I always used to hope Dad would come with me. Because if I went in alone, I always had this strange conviction that there'd be a man hanging in one of the cubicles.

Weird shit, huh? I never knew where I'd picked the idea up, never figured out what I could ever have been exposed to which had left that specific, dangling image in my mind.

Eventually it faded. I don't think I've thought about it for years. But walking into that deserted men's room in the early morning half-light had brought an anticipatory little shiver up my back, and I'd remembered.

I have the same thing now with Hobbs. Whenever I knock on someone's door – Mel and Linds, Deb's, Emmet's – I'm sure that it's going to be Hobbs who opens it.

Of course, I know where _that_ image comes from; it's all tied to the nightmares about me screaming for Brian at the Loft door only to have Hobbs reach out and drag me inside. I understand that. It doesn't help. I'm sure that everyone I know has seen me standing on their doorstep with a manic grin of fear before I can tone it down to a genuine smile once I recognise them.

But it's like he's stolen everything – the person I had been; the ability to be the artist I wanted to be rather than just the artist I _had_ to be; my confidence; my fucking courage – and that wasn't enough. Now he's moved into all the places where I should feel safe and loved and he's tainted them too.

I'm just so tired of it all, tired of trying, tired of hurting, tired of wearing that fucking grinning mask and telling everyone I'm fine when all I want to do is just …

Have my life back.

I can't remember the kid I used to be before Hobbs re-programmed my brain for me. I know the things that boy did, and I can marvel at his optimism, his cock-sure arrogance, his unshakeable belief in his own invulnerability – but I can't remember _feeling _any of those things.

Sometimes I think that Justin died that night, and all that's left is some kind of re-incarnation who looks the same and sounds the same, but who is really an imposter.

Just going through the motions.

Brian was the only one I didn't feel that way with.

That's why I let it go on, even after Michael had told me that the only reason Brian had taken me in was because he felt guilty and responsible. All Michael did was confirm what I really already knew. But instead of just walking away and leaving Brian to get on with his own life, I'd come up with those stupid fucking rules; rules that did nothing except prop up my own insecurities.

I just wanted to know that I was different to all the other tricks, that no matter where he was or whom he was with, it was me he would always come back to.

What a fucking laugh that I was the one who broke them all.

Brian cared, and that should have been enough. I should never have expected love. But I did, and I thought I'd found it; and no matter how much of an illusion_ that_ turned out to be, I should still have had the balls to tell Brian to his face. That way at least I'd have kept his respect.

All I'd had to do was say, _Brian, neither of us is happy. You don't want a boyfriend, I don't want a fuck-buddy. I thought I could handle it, but I can't. _I could have kept my dignity.

Instead I had to sneak around behind his back, cheating on him like some sad little neglected wife getting her thrills with the postman; and now the last memory I'll ever have of him is that feral, triumphant grin as he finally, irrefutably proved his point in his own inimitable style: that love doesn't exist.

I just hadn't been able to stand the thought of never having his arms around me again, never feeling safe, never being able to _let go _without knowing he'd be there to catch me.

If I hadn't been such a clingy, cowardly, whiny little faggot maybe it would have turned out differently. If I'd stayed the brave, happy confident kid he first fell for, maybe he wouldn't have got bored.

If Chris Hobbs hadn't killed me.

Eventually, it all comes back to that. Chris Hobbs killed me, and he stole everything that was mine.

I feel a single tear trickle down my face.

"Hi."

The voice jerks me back to the present, and I blink up at a guy standing beside me, a quizzical smile on his face that reminds me fleetingly of Brian. He's well dressed in a black overcoat and slacks, and that makes me think of Brian too. But this guy's older, greying, average looking. His voice is kind, though.

"I've been watching you a while. You look cold. Got anywhere to go?"

I almost answer, _Nowhere special,_ but I choke that thought back. I shake my head.

He sits beside me, not too close, and smiles again. "Maybe I can help. What's your name?"

And before my brain can engage my mouth answers for me.

"Chris."


	6. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

"Jen, hon, you've just got to keep hanging in there." Debbie held the receiver in her left hand, a dripping spatula still gripped in her right. "They don't know for sure." She listened, nodding sympathetically, all her concentration on the woman on the other end of the line. "Okay. Sure. You know we're all here for you, you call me anytime. Give Molly a hug for me. You too, sweetie."

She hung up and scratched absently at her wig. "Christ, what a fucking disaster."

Vic crossed over and put an arm round her shoulders. "How's she doing?"

"She's a fucking falling-down mess, is how she's doing. Molly's the only thing keeping her together."

"Then thank God Jennifer's got her." Vic relieved his sister of the spatula and led her back to the table. She sat down slowly and looked at Michael and Ben. "She's sure Sunshine is dead."

"They haven't said that. They haven't found a body." Vic was ladling sauce over plates of spaghetti and ferrying them to the table.

"Vic, don't even say such a thing!" Debbie wailed, crossing herself superstitiously.

"Well, they haven't," Vic replied reasonably. "And until they do, as far as I'm concerned he's alive."

"Still," Michael put in, "you've got to admit, now that they've matched the blood to Justin …" his voice trailed off.

"All that proves is that Justin was hurt," Vic insisted, sitting down and helping himself to garlic bread. "He could have been in a fight … anything. It does_ not_ mean that he's dead."

"Then why hasn't he been in touch?" Debbie objected. "All his clothes are still at the loft, he's got no money … and if he was hurt … he would have called someone, wouldn't he?"

Vic shrugged. "Maybe he didn't want to. We all know what Justin's been through – perhaps this thing with Brian was just too much. Perhaps he just couldn't face anyone."

"It's not all Brian's fault," Michael mumbled.

Debbie leaned over and clipped him round the ear. "I do _not_ want to hear about that!" she yelled. "And do _not_ speak with your mouth full! Sorry, sweetie," she added to Ben, who shrugged and smiled.

"Anyway," Debbie continued, "I can't believe that Sunshine wouldn't have at least called his mom or me. He'd know we'd be worried fucking sick, and he's such a considerate kid." She blinked and wiped at her eyes."

"Actually, that's quite common," Ben said, mopping up sauce with a piece of bread. "People disappear all the time, and usually they don't contact anyone. They'll have been unhappy for a while, or stressed about work or their families … then something happens which pushes them over the edge … and they just leave everything and go. Often they set up new lives, new identities. Very few are actually dead."

"Sunshine's not like that," Debbie protested vehemently. "I'm sorry, Ben, but you don't know him. He always thinks of other people before himself."

"Perhaps he thought he was doing you all a favour."

Deb glared at him. "And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"Only that perhaps Justin saw himself as a burden," Ben replied calmly. "You said yourself that he blamed himself for his parents'divorce. That he couldn't work efficiently because of his weak hand. Not to mention being totally dependant on a man who Justin suspected was only supporting him in the first place him because of his own guilt. Perhaps he felt like a charity case."

"That's not fair!" Michael broke in indignantly. "Brian loved him … in his own way."

"I never said he didn't, Michael. I'm trying to look at things from Justin's perspective."

"Brian did everything for him! Took him in, fed him, took care of him, even paid his fucking school fees … and it still wasn't enough, so he went and cheated behind Brian's back…"

Ben wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Michael," he said patiently, "Justin is eighteen years old, not thirty. We've all seen the way Brian treats him - either as some sort of pet to be coddled or as an encumbrance that he can't wait to get rid of. Justin needs more than just financial support; he needs emotional stability too. Especially after what happened to him."

"He's not the only one to have had it rough," Michael argued. "Look at the childhood Brian had…" he tailed off, his eyes going from one face to another. "Okay, so that's not a good example. But Emmett, he had a really rough childhood too, and his family disowned him, and he's okay. And I grew up without a father, and that wasn't easy…"

"I believe the point is, that Justin _did_ have a good childhood; happy, secure and with a bright future to look forward to. And then within a year he not only loses his home and his father's love, he finds himself thrown into a completely new world of strangers with different values and unfamiliar surroundings; and before he can even begin to come to terms with that he gets assaulted and nearly killed, and has to face the prospect of brain damage for the rest of his life. I think he has the right to be a little emotionally fragile. From what I've been told, Brian was the only thing he had – parent, provider, nurse, as well as lover. It's not at all surprising that he became dependent – it's just a pity he fixed on someone even more damaged than himself."

"Yeah," Debbie snapped, "a damaged asshole!"

Ben smiled. "Brian copes in his own way. And not just with his childhood abuse … don't forget, he must have been every bit as traumatised as Justin by what Hobbs did. Brian witnessed the assault, he has to live with the memory of watching someone he loves nearly die in front of him. I can't imagine how helpless he must have felt."

"I can," Michael sighed. "I spent three days watching him fall apart."

"I still don't understand that," Vic said. "We all saw how Brian refused to leave the hospital until Justin woke up, but then he just walked out and never once came back, never even called to find out how the kid was doing. How could he act that way?"

"Like I said, Brian has his own way of working things out. It's not yours, it's not mine."

"I really did believe he loved Justin," Debbie said sadly, "I even told him so. But after this I just can't see it. What do you think, Ben?"

"Far be it from me to try to get inside _that_ head. But since you're asking, I'd say it's perfectly clear that they adore each other." Ben shrugged. "Whether or not that's enough is a different matter."

"That's if Justin comes back," Michael reminded him. "If he_ can_ come back."

* * *

BRIAN

"Another."

The barman pushes over a shot and I down it, grimacing. I have no idea how many that makes, but it's not enough. Not nearly enough.

My fucking brain is still working.

I'll shut it up one way or another; I'll fucking drown it if I have to.

Just so I can stop hearing his voice, stop thinking that he's standing here beside me. I've got way too used to that little blond constantly at my elbow.

Now I don't know whether I'll ever see him again.

Not like I'm _not _seeing him all the time; across the bar, down the street, standing under that fucking lampost. A twink Lily Marlene in flannel.

The Loft's even worse – he's everywhere. His clothes, his drawings, his shit in the fridge, even his toothbrush reminding me each time I walk into the bathroom. His scent on the pillow.

I can't stop myself thinking that he's dead and haunting me.

Perhaps I should box it all up. But I can't, I fucking can't.

I'd rather be haunted.

All the things I used to bitch about, his mess, his music, his chatter; I'd give fucking _anything _to open the door and hear him clattering about, fixing me something to eat.

I'd never realised how cold the Loft was, how empty. How silent.

See. Fucking brain's still working.

I throw another Tequila at it. That'll get the bastard.

It's not even like after he was bashed, and Christ knows that was hard enough. But at least then I knew where he was, I could go and see that he was still fighting. That he hadn't given up.

Now I don't know anything, and I can't stand it. Just … can't …stand it.

I always knew I'd majorly fuck up eventually. And if he's paid for my mistake again, how do I even begin to live with myself?

Fuck, Justin; I'm so sorry.


	7. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

ALEX WILDER

I walk into _The Copper Kettle_ and look around. It's Tuesday night so the place is quiet, and even with the subdued lighting I have no problem spotting Brian immediately. He's sitting at the bar with a bottle of beer, but I can't see any empties so I take that as a good sign. He looks up as I join him and I get a shock; he seems to have aged about ten years in the couple of weeks since I last saw him. There are dark circles under his eyes and his normally lean face looks gaunt.

"I didn't really think you'd be here," I tell him.

He shrugs, and manages a small smile. "Fuck all else to do. Can I get you a beer?"

"Yeah, thanks." He nods to the barman who opens a bottle of Bud and hands it to me. Brian pays and I say, "Shall we get a table?"

Brian nods and I head over to a quiet corner and sit down. Brian takes the seat opposite. He fidgets uncomfortably, not really looking at me. I'd suggested this place because it's never very busy and I've always found the old-world décor soothing, even if it is all fake. Also it's a straight bar, so we're not likely to be disturbed by any of his friends. But he's obviously still jumpy as a cat.

"You know I think this all bullshit, right?" he says suddenly.

I smile. "I recall your saying so on several occasions. So why are you here?"

He runs a hand distractedly through his hair. "Fucked if I know."

I wait.

Finally he meets my eyes. "Because I don't know what else to do. I can't drink enough, or snort enough or fuck enough to make it go away. And I'm screwing up at Vanguard – even when I'm there I can't fucking concentrate. Everything's going to hell in a handcart."

"Because of Justin?"

He sighs. "Because of what I did to Justin."

"Which was?"

"Okay, look, he was seeing some kid, alright? I don't mean like tricking; I mean dating and shit like that. He was mooning around all over the place and playing fucking violin music and lying about where he'd been. Like I wouldn't know – like I couldn't smell the fucker all over him."

He falls silent, fiddling with his bottle. I wait for a minute, then prompt him. "And?"

"So I figure what the fuck, let the kid have a fun. He knows he won't get any of that hetero bullshit from me, so I think, let him get it out of his system. But then Mikey has to do his _Hey buddy I'm really sorry to have to tell you this_ routine, and then I realise if _he_ knows then so will everybody else. So I had to do something."

"Because your pride was at stake."

"Not just that. I was fucking pissed at the little twat for buying all that crap, for thinking it counted for anything. I wanted to prove to him it didn't."

"So, what, you confronted Justin about it?"

"Well, that would have been the mature thing to do, wouldn't it? But then, maturity isn't something even my closest friends would accuse me of." Brian pinches the bridge of his nose, then drops both his hands to the table. "I came across his little boyfriend busking in the street. He's a violinist, see, and a good one although it kills me to admit it. So I offered him a role in a new ad. Big bucks. A sort of, _you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours sort of thing."_

Ah. I have a feeling I know where this is going.

"So I took him back to the Loft and fucked him. And Justin came home early."

"Um. And that was the last anyone's seen of him."

"Yep. Except for his scarf. That turned up covered with blood. Justin's blood." His voice cracks suddenly, and all the hard-assed-fuck-everything façade cracks with it. He looks terrified. "Now everybody thinks he's dead because of me. I think he is, too."

"Um."

"Is that the best you can fucking come up with, _Um?_ Is that what I'm paying for?"

I smile. "You're not paying at all, remember? This isn't a consultation."

There's silence, while he decides whether to carry on talking or get up and leave. Then he says quietly, "I should have left it alone. The kid would never have kept Justin – he wasn't even a good lay."

I prop my chin on my hand, gazing at him levelly. "So why didn't you? Leave it alone?"

Brian snorts. "I just told you. I was pissed at him."

"Not jealous?"

He looks at me like a just grew a second head. "I'm a fag. I don't do jealous."

"But what made this different? After all, you and Justin had an open relationship."

Okay, I've now got three heads.

I stand up. "Let's not play semantics, Brian. You've been with Justin on-and-off since he was seventeen and you've been living together for the last six months. That's a relationship. If you're not prepared to concede even that much, I may as well go home now and stop wasting my time."

"Jesus." He rubs his face with both hands, then takes a deep breath. "Yeah, alright, whatever you want. Happy now?"

I sit back down. "Why do you find it so hard to admit? I mean, you were genuinely concerned for Justin's welfare after he was attacked, and you certainly did much more for him than a simple friend would have."

"Well, guess I was pretty responsible for him getting hurt _then,_ too."

"How so?"

"I went to his fucking prom, didn't I? If I hadn't, Hobbs might not have gone for him."

"Brian, you have no way of knowing that. I could put the opposite case, that if you hadn't been there, Justin would have died before help reached him."

He sighs. "That's what Justin says."

"So he has never blamed you?"

"No. Not in any way. The only person Justin holds responsible is Hobbs."

I sit back and fold my hands in lap. "So you're saying that you took Justin in because you felt guilty."

He takes a little while to answer. "I guess mainly, at least to begin with. I mean, I _liked_ him, too – he was such a ballsy little fucker."

"And then?"

"I just kind of … got used to him. Got to know him more – you know, living with him." He smiles. "The first time he moved in, after his dad threw him out, I really used to hate his shit all over the place, the fucking music he used to play, everything. It was _my_ space. But then, after he got bashed … he was different. Quieter, I suppose. And I kind of liked looking after him." He lowers his eyes. "I've never had anyone to be responsible for. Oh, Mikey, sure; but that's different. He's my friend, I just watch his back because he's too pathetic to do it himself_._ But to have someone depend on me so much that they couldn't even walk out the fucking door without me – that's something else." He pauses. "The weird thing is, I thought I'd resent it. But instead I sort of felt good about it."

Good grief, he's actually talking. I wait.

Brian takes a swallow of beer. He gets more animated. "But then he starts getting all these ideas about birthday presents and picnics and going away together. It's like, he doesn't understand I have to _work_ to pay for everything. Everything as in not only _my _stuff, but his fucking college fees as well because his father is too much of a homophobic prick to cough up himself. So business has to come first. If I don't have a job, then we're both on the streets. Fact of fucking life."

"And what did he say when you explained that to him?"

Brian stares at me. "I don't think I did."

"You didn't feel you had to justify yourself?"

"The only person I have to justify _anything_ to is me."

"That's true. If there's only you involved."

He smirks. "Which is why I don't do relationships."

"Brian, we're talking in circles. You've already admitted the two of you _were _in a relationship."

He's silent.

I let him absorb that, then try another angle.

"Okay. Everybody knows your one-fuck-only policy. So what made Justin different?"

"He was a persistent little shit?"

"Who just battered you into submission."

"I think it tends to be the other way round."

"Because you always have to be in control."

"Goes without saying."

How quickly he gets his defences back up. Glib, impenetrable Brian.

"So basically, Justin sort of followed you around and pestered you until you got tired of saying no and took him back for seconds."

"Pretty much. Although did I mention he's a great fuck?"

"Goes without saying," I smile back at him.

"Plus, I guess I wanted to look out for him. He tried to act so fucking cool about everything when in fact he knew jack-shit. Christ, he let the first guy he met take him home! I could have been a fucking psycho serial killer for all he knew. I'm not saying he was dumb, because he wasn't; he just wanted to experience everything he could and to hell with the consequences. I figured he'd get hurt – physically hurt. I could at least wisen him up a little, show him how to take care of himself. I told him I wanted him to become the best homosexual he possibly could."

"A second you?"

He smiles. "A lot of people have said so. Justin even named my son. That was the night I met him, the night I popped his cherry." For a moment his eyes are warmly reminiscent. "Christ, I was so fucked up, I was high as a kite. But I remember every minute; the night my Sonny Boy was born." He smiles again. "_Both_ my Sonny Boys."

I sit quietly, not wanting to disturb his train of thought. After a moment he says, "But Justin's not my clone. Justin's his own man; he always has been. I just wanted to make sure he stayed safe."

I shrug. "Well, I can't see what your problem is."

Both of his eyebrows shoot up. "If your business is all about listening to what people say to you, then I'm sorry to tell you you're shit at it. I've explained to you; we know Justin's definitely hurt and probably even dead, considering that nobody's had sight nor sound of him for two weeks; it's my fault for fucking the fiddler and letting Justin catch me, and if you can't see that constitutes a problem then _I'm_ the one wasting my time!"

"Of course you're worried. Of course you feel responsible, although I must say you seem to be assuming a lot on very little evidence. You can't claim a bloody scarf as proof of death."

His head shoots up and for a moment I think he's going to say something. When he doesn't, I go on. "Brian; according to what you've said, your relationship with Justin - aside from the sexual aspect – has been that of a mentor and protector. I agree the ending was unfortunate and could certainly have been handled better. But if your aim was simply to give him advise and support until he was able to make his own way in the world, well, you've achieved your object. Pat yourself on the back and let him go."

* * *

TBC


	8. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

BRIAN

What? Let him go?

I stare at Alex, not at all sure how to answer. After all, he's only voicing what I've always told myself – that the kid would only stay until he was better. And he _is_ better … better than he was, at least.

But …

I bang my bottle of Bud down on the table. "So you're telling me to say 'fuck him'? Never mind if he's okay or not? Never mind if he's even _alive_ or not?" I can hear my voice rising; people are beginning to look over at us. Fuck them.

"Fuck _you_ if you think I'll just walk away from this. Fuck you if you can't understand that he deserves more than that!"

Alex smiles at me, lays his hand on mine. "Brian, I don't doubt it for a minute. I just wanted you to realise that Justin was never a pity-fuck, or a friend, or a duty. You care for him. You're worried sick, and you're coping in the only way you know how – drinking and fucking yourself into oblivion so you don't have to deal with it."

"Tell me something I _don't_ know."

He sighs, then leans forward, elbows on the table. "What do you want, Brian?"

"To know the kid's okay."

"Just that?"

"I want my life to stop being such a fucking mess."

"You mean you want to be in control again." He studies me carefully for a moment. "Do you regret meeting Justin? Before him, you were a completely free agent – no responsibilities, nobody to answer to but yourself; no apologies and no regrets, isn't that your motto? He changed all that. You must resent him on many levels."

Fuck, this is why I hate this shit. How am I supposed to answer that? Yes, of course I resented the little twat, lots of times, and when I did I'd make sure he got the message. Yeah, I'd often thought that my life would have been a hell of a lot simpler if I'd spent five minutes longer in the backroom at Babylon that night. But the truth is that the benefits of knowing Justin have always outweighed the disadvantages.

"If you were to find out that Justin was well and happy, would that be enough? Would you be able to move forward … without him?"

I think of my cold, lonely Loft. How I can't stand bringing tricks back there anymore. How nothing and nobody I do can exorcise that little blond ghost from my life.

I hold Alex' gaze. "Honestly? No. That's what I'm afraid of."

He nods, apparently satisfied. "And on that note, I'll get us another beer."

* * *

"So, Doc, you gonna wave your magic wand and fix it all?"

Alex sits down again and hands me a beer. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm no miracle worker."

I bare my teeth at him. "Just a quack."

He smiles thinly. "Not that, either. Think of me more as a sounding board … like if you get a new account and you can't come up with a way to market it. So you bounce ideas off other people, and maybe you come up with a new perspective. Something you hadn't previously thought of."

Christ. My brain has been running round like a fucking hamster on a wheel for longer than I can bear to think of, and he's telling me I need to give it more exercise? What I _need_ is to hit the little fucker with a brick. I take a swallow of beer, wishing it were something stronger.

"Brian." Alex face is wearing the same patient expression Justin often uses, the one that generally makes me want to slap him. "There are things in your life you _can_ control and things that you can't. Your problem is that you can't accept that, especially when people you care for are concerned. Justin is either alive or dead. He will come back, or he won't. There's nothing you can do about either of those scenarios. But you _do_ have the power to address the behaviour that brought you to this point in the first place."

I feel the dull, constant ache in my gut deepen. "I did my best for him."

"Yes, as long as there were physical symptoms that you could deal with. If his hand cramped, you could ease it. You could make sure he took his medication for his migraines; you could comfort him when he had nightmares; you could give him the confidence to go out again. You could support him financially. You could fuck him. But Justin's problems didn't disappear because he _physically_ improved. His need for reassurance, for affection, for security, is not just a consequence of his being assaulted. He lost his home; his family; the love and respect of his father – the most influential figure in his life – because Justin didn't conform to his father's idea of what a man should be. That struck at the very heart of Justin as an individual – at his sense of self-worth, his self-confidence. You provided him not only with a home, but you became a physical and emotional crutch for him. It's only natural that, as you tried to distance yourself, he would try to hold on tighter."

The pain is now a sharp knife. "He wanted more than I could give."

Alex smiles, but his eyes are serious. "More than you could admit, you mean." He leans forwards. "You couldn't control it, Brian. Humpty Dumpty got smashed and, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't put him back exactly the same way he was. So you dealt with it in the usual manner, by sensory overload. And all you accomplished was to re-enforce Justin's insecurity, and to make him believe that _you_ rejected him, too."

Well, well. At least now I know what he majored in … Master of the Fucking Obvious. I swallow the last of my beer "So I take it it's official, it really _is_ all my fault."

Alex shakes his head. "It's nobody's fault, Brian. Much of your behaviour, like all the rest of us, is a product of both your background and your circumstances. But you can learn how to recognise that and, hopefully, how to handle your reactions better." He spreads his hands on the table. "Look, if you really want me to be able to help, then I have to have something to work with. Not just the fuck-all-of-you-Brian Kinney sitting before me, but person he developed _from_." He pauses. "I need to ask you about your childhood, about your relationship with your parents."

And didn't I just know he was going to say that? Now he wants to dig into all the dirty, juicy details, all the crap that's dead and buried and forgotten – or at least not thought about – and drag it out so it can sit there in the sun and stink. Well, fuck that. And fuck fucking predictable, condescending, smug fucking quack shrinks as well.

I shove my chair back and stand up. "Sorry, Doc, but this is where I bow out. I cut thoughts of my family out of my life like I would gangrene, a long time ago, and I'm more than happy for it to stay that way. Thanks for the chat and everything, but really, I think I'll just stick to the tried and tested remedy. It works better."

I don't look back as I head for the door. I really, really need a drink.

*******************

"Em." Ted pulled at his friend's arm. "Emmett … it's not him."

Emmett took no notice but pushed determinedly through the crowd towards the blond he'd spotted. Ted sighed and followed; Emmett was using his height advantage to scour Babylon for any blond head and he kept rushing off in the hope that it might just belong to the missing twink. Of course it never did, and Emmett would fall into a slough of despond before his next sighting sent him plunging off again. Ted was getting used to it.

He watched as his friend pounced, and saw the delight on his face crushed into disappointment once more. Ted heaved another sigh, and slung his arm round Emmett's shoulders. Emmett gazed back forlornly. "I was so sure this time, Teddy."

"I know, Em. Just like all the other times."

Emmett shook off Ted's arm. "So, what are you saying, stop looking? Just forget about him?" His voice was rising indignantly.

Ted shook his head. "Of course not. I just hate seeing you get so upset every time you're wrong."

Emmett wiped his eyes. "I can't help it. I start thinking we're never going to see him again and then I start thinking about what might have happened to him and _then_ I think … what if he's dead?" Emmett took a shuddering breath and grabbed Ted's arms. "Teddy …what if … Justin's really dead?"

Ted looked into his friend's frantic eyes and wished, not for the first time, that Emmett wasn't so attached to the kid. Not that he wasn't concerned himself. Ted had watched Justin grow from making an amusing guest appearance in the Brian Kinney Saga to co-star in his own right, and he felt the loss the same way they all did. Ted would also be the first to admit that the kid had already suffered more in the way of slings and arrows of outrageous fortune than anybody had a right to expect, excluding whatever latest disaster had befallen him. But Ted also knew that the world would keep turning whether Justin were still in it or not, and no amount of fret and worry would change that fact.

But he made himself smile encouragingly. "Don't worry, Em. If the lad could survive his father, Chris Hobbs,_ and_ Brian Kinney, I'm sure he'll survive this, too. Now come on and let me buy you a drink."

He made his way towards the bar, tugging Emmett behind him, and then stopped as he recognised a familiar figure. "Look … there's Brian. Bri!"

Brian was standing slumped against the bar, nursing a glass of whisky. As Ted got closer, he saw the guy standing next to Brian reach out to take his arm. Brian jerked away and snapped something. Obviously not taking _no_ for an answer, the man ran his hand up under Brian's jacket, whereupon Brian simply hauled off and punched him. Ted and Emmett stood with their mouths hanging open as the guy landed on his ass and Brian stood glaring down at him, cursing.

Ted came out of shock first. He grabbed Brian by the arm and immediately regretted it as a fist flew towards him and he had to jump backwards to avoid getting his nose broken. Brian staggered, struggling for balance, and as Ted got a good look at his face he realised that Brian was beyond drunk – he was cataclysmically wasted.

Bouncers converged, pinioning Brian's arms as he rained kicks and obscenities at them. Ted tried again. "Brian! For fuck's sake … just stop it, before they call the cops. _Brian!_"

For a moment it looked as though the Babylon crowd was about to suffer the inconceivable trauma of seeing its King being carried kicking and screaming from the premises, but then Brian seemed to get control of himself and stopped struggling. Ted took a hesitant step closer. "It's okay," he said to Marty, the closest bouncer. "He's just had a little too much to drink. We'll take him home."

Marty, obviously as confused as any of the regulars by Brian's melt-down, nodded and warily slackened his hold. "Make sure you do," he grunted, still eyeing Brian dubiously.

"Don't worry," Brian mumbled, brushing off their hands and trying to straighten his clothes, "I'm going." His gaze, dark and unfocussed, fell on Ted. "And I don't need your help. Just leave me the fuck alone."

He turned and began to walk slowly but steadily towards the exit. The crowd parted silently to let him pass.

* * *

TBC


	9. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

HENRY RICHARDS

I pour another scotch, swirl it slowly around the glass; sip it.

It's only my second; I have company tonight, and I don't wish to appear a drunken old roué.

I still have my standards.

I may be closer to sixty than to fifty and my hair might be silvering rapidly - I _refuse _to resort to those ridiculous, demeaning efforts to perpetuate the illusion of long-lost youth -but I flatter myself that I'm still trim, still quite a figure.

Simon wouldn't have expected anything else.

Simon.

I can't begin to tell you how beautiful he was; how charming. Simon, with his wonderful dancer's physique, his dancer's stamina.

Not that he had either, at the end.

I had met him at a party in Chelsea nearly twenty years ago and had fallen instantly, hopelessly, blissfully in love with the beautiful young American dancer from the Baltimore Ballet. Never mind the fact that there were fifteen years between us. Never mind the fact that he was HIV positive.

Of course, it wasn't really known as AIDS then. Just this strange disease that seemed to target gay men and for which there was no known cure.

There still isn't, of course.

The real irony was that Simon never contracted it because he was gay, but from an infected blood transfusion he was given during the removal of a burst appendix when he was seventeen.

The therapy available at the time was primitive. It didn't help Nureyev, or Freddie Mercury, or Rock Hudson. So many friends. So many beautiful boys.

Simon died in 1990, just before his twenty-fifth birthday.

I've never really been able to form a relationship since. His face always gets in the way.

One of the few advantages in getting older is that physical desire declines along with the body. It's nothing that I can't take care of with my own hand and an old photograph. Nowadays it's company I miss most – that and a warm body to sleep next to. Happily Mark's little agency supplies those requirements for me. Much as I may deplore supporting prostitution (and let's be honest, that's exactly what it is), I get a pleasant young man's society for an evening with no complications or recriminations, which is all I need – and all I can offer.

But I digress. I'd followed Simon back to America, a capable enough artist to keep my head above water but with never enough talent to be really noticed. When my father died of a sudden heart attack, he left me money enough in his will to set up my own small gallery. It's done well. I may not have the ability to produce a masterpiece myself, but I can certainly spot someone else's.

I think perhaps it was my love for art that gave me the will to continue, after Simon was gone. That, and the knowledge that he wouldn't have forgiven me for just giving up. Simon's love of life was his greatest quality; it shone through his eyes, his smile, his whole being. It was the one thing he never lost.

* * *

The door bell chimes. I glance at the clock on the mantel – 8 o'clock. He's punctual.

I push myself out of my chair, feeling my knees crack a little as I do so, and move to the front door. I open it.

I look down at the slight, blond figure standing before me and I nearly close it again – I may prefer my company to be young but I'm not a paedophile. He has a backpack over his shoulder, for Heaven's sake! Then I notice his eyes, and I see something which tells me that my guest is older than he seems; he surveys me with a calm, cool appraisal which no-one but an adult can produce – he betrays no fear, no apprehension.

He smiles, but his blue eyes don't warm in the slightest. "You're expecting me?" His voice is pleasant, cultured.

I stand back a little to usher him in. "And your name is … "

"Chris."

He steps past me, not even glancing around him. Not a good sign. My home exudes comfort, affluence, taste; and my visitors are usually tactful enough to at least affect approval.

He puts down the backpack, shrugs off his jacket and turns to face me. And Good Lord, but he's lovely; soft blond hair nearly reaching the collar of his black shirt, pale flawless skin, heavenly blue eyes, delightful retroussé nose. Although he looks no more than sixteen, he's probably closer to twenty – his physique is actually quite well developed despite his slender build.

He stands; not nervous, not aroused, not trying to entice. Just waiting for me to make a move.

"Well?" he asks eventually. "Am I what you want?"

"I don't know. That's yet to be decided." I motion him to be seated, and he perches himself on the sofa. He looks up, suddenly interested. "You're British?"

I smile. Americans always get that wrong. "English," I gently correct.

He gives a small, apologetic nod.

"May I offer you a drink?"

"Please."

I carry my glass back to the sideboard and top it up from the decanter. "Is scotch alright? Or I have brandy … or vodka, perhaps?"

When he doesn't answer I turn my head. He's on his feet, standing before the painting that hangs above the fireplace. He seems to be absorbed.

I pour him a scotch anyway, and take it over to him. He looks round at me, a little startled, and then takes the glass from my hand. "Thanks." He resumes his study. "It's an original."

I'm surprised by his certainty. I nod. "Paul Camus."

"I know. I used to study art."

There's something in the boy's tone that makes me look at him sharply – as though he were speaking of a far-distant time, long regretted. As if anyone his age can even have a past! But his gaze is still firmly averted.

"Are you a ballet fan?" he asks.

I let my eyes linger on the portrait of the young dancer, his right leg raised to the barre, his right hand gripping his ankle, his left arm and naked torso gracefully extended.

"It reminds me of someone I knew. A long time ago."

He glances at me, blue eyes disconcertingly knowing.

"Shall we take a seat?" He nods and follows me to the sofa. I sit at one end, he at the other. He sips his drink and I watch his hands cradling the glass, the curve of his slender throat as he swallows. He really is lovely.

"Has Mark explained to you?"

His gaze flashes back to me again and he nods. "He said you like to talk."

I smile at him. "With the right company … and the right conversation."

He seems to relax a little, and the blue eyes become just a shade warmer.

"If you're interested in art, I have other paintings I can show you. I own a small gallery in town – perhaps you've seen it?"

He shakes his head. "I haven't been in Baltimore that long. But I'd love to see your other pieces."

"Then you shall. But first, let's just talk for a while. Tell me a little about yourself, Chris."

* * *

TBC


	10. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

"Okay," Deb said, snapping her gum and marshalling her troops. "Michael, you cover the bars, the gym and the baths. If anyone gives you any shit about putting them up, you tell them to find somewhere else to eat because they won't be getting served at the diner anytime soon."

"Don't worry, Ma, I'll take care of it." Michael glanced down at the roll of posters he was carrying. "I hope there's enough, because Ben is going to put some up at college and I need one for the shop."

Deb patted his cheek. "If there isn't, we'll just run off some more." She handed another roll to Daphne. "You and Jen go south – Lindsay, we'll take the north side."

Daphne shot a quick look at Jennifer as they walked away from the others. She had always been a little in awe of Justin's mother for her cool, imperturbable air as well as her immaculately groomed appearance, but Jennifer showed little of either today. Her hair was roughly tied back with loose strands falling over her face, and without make-up she looked much older. Her eyes were haggard from lack of sleep. "How's Molly?" Daphne asked.

Jennifer gave her a brittle smile. "Too young to really understand," she replied. "She knows that Justin is missing, but she's already got used to that."

Daphne nodded. "And what about you?"

"Coping." Jennifer stopped at the first street lamp. Daphne unrolled a poster and held it in place, while Jennifer pulled a roll of tape from her jacket pocket and attached it firmly. She took a step backwards and gazed at Justin's face, prominently displayed. Then she took a gasping breath. "Oh, my God, I can't believe I'm doing this. Oh God, Daphne…" Her voice broke as she began to sob.

"Oh … Mrs. Taylor … I mean, Jennifer…" Daphne reached out hesitantly to put her hand on the older woman's shaking arm. "Look, let's go and get a coffee, huh?"

"No!" Jennifer's voice rose hysterically. "We have to get the rest of the posters up, we_ have_ to…"

"Half an hour more won't make a difference," Daphne said soothingly although she was pretty close to tears herself. "Just let's go and sit down for a minute." She tugged gently at Jennifer's arm, and eventually succeeded in leading her back to the diner. She settled Jennifer at a vacant table and ordered two Lattes, and then watched sympathetically as Jennifer dug out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Daphne," she gasped. "It was just … seeing his face on that poster … it made it all real…"

"I know." Daphne patted her hand. "I feel just the same."

Jennifer twisted her handkerchief distractedly. "I can't_ believe _we're going through all this again! As if it wasn't bad enough the last time! What has he done to deserve this … what have _I_ done?"

Daphne looked up as the waitress delivered their coffees and smiled her thanks. Then she turned her attention back to Jennifer.

"I knew I should have stopped it," Jennifer continued. "Debbie herself told me that man would hurt my son, and Heaven knows he's proved it enough! I should have found a way to make Justin understand!"

"Um, not the Justin _I _know, you wouldn't," Daphne smiled, shaking her head. "Nobody ever made Justin give up on something he wanted, and boy, did he want Brian." She suddenly realised that probably wasn't the wisest thing to have said. "Oh, look, I'm sorry … I didn't mean…"

Jennifer waved her hand. "No, no Daphne. It's alright. I understand what you're trying to say." She lifted her coffee to her lips with trembling hands. "I just feel that I should have done more to protect him. I'm his _mother_, for f… Goodness' sake."

Daphne sipped her own drink. "Justin never wanted to be protected, not from himself or anybody else. He believes in making his own mistakes."

"And I wonder where he learnt that?" Jennifer snapped.

Daphne sighed. "Look, Mrs… Jennifer, I know how you feel about Brian. I'm not saying that he isn't a total and utter shit-head a lot of the time, because he is; but he really does love Justin, maybe even as much as Justin loves him. You saw how he was after Justin got bashed … he was a complete wreck at the hospital."

"That was mostly guilt," Jennifer sniffed angrily.

"Maybe that's so, but that's not all there was to it," Daphne replied. Suddenly it was very important to her that Jennifer should understand. "You see, I was there. At the prom. I'm the only one who saw how they were together; how they laughed, how totally wrapped up in each other they were. It was like the rest of us didn't exist … only Brian and Justin doing it their own way, and fuck the consequences." She felt her face grow hot. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to swear. It's just that I'd never seen Justin like that, and as for Brian … he was _happy._ That's how I know. That Brian really loves him. Because Brian isn't a happy person."

Jennifer was looking at her wide-eyed. "Why didn't I notice you were growing up so quickly?"

Daphne laughed. "For the same reason you didn't notice Justin!" She reached out and clasped Jennifer's hands. "Listen, I am _sure_ that Justin's alive. It's a best friend's privilege to know things like that. And when he comes back, I am so going to _kill_ him for putting us through this!"

Jennifer squeezed Daphne's fingers in return, and managed a watery smile. "If you can believe that, sweetheart, then so can I." She swallowed the last of her Latte and stood up determinedly. "Now, let's go and get those posters up."

* * *

As Michael hurried through the door to Woody's. he was jostled by a big guy coming out. He dropped the posters and the rubber band holding them snapped so that they spilled over the floor. Cursing under his breath, he stooped to gather them up.

"You really are pathetic, Mikey," said a voice in his ear.

Michael jumped upright. "Bri! What are you doing here?" He took in Brian's outfit; jeans and leather jacket. "Why aren't you at work? And why the fuck haven't you been answering my calls? I must have left, like, a _gazillion _messages!" He took in Brian's dishevelled appearance; the two-day's worth of stubble, the dark circles under his eyes. "Are you sick? You look like shit."

Brian didn't answer. Instead he picked up one of the dropped posters and gazed at it. After a moment he handed it to Michael, who rolled it back up with the others. "Your mom's idea?" Brian asked quietly.

"Uh huh." Michael struggled to tie the snapped band back together. "We're putting them up everywhere." He followed Brian back to the bar. "You want to help? I mean … since you're obviously doing nothing. And like I said, why aren't you at work?"

Brian picked up the beer that he'd been drinking. "Vance decided I could do with a holiday." He smiled bitterly. "Some personal time."

"Oh." Michael looked at him, a worried expression on his face. "Emmett told me about the other night at Babylon."

Brian shrugged. "Telephone, telegraph, tell an Emmett."

"He's worried about you, Bri. We all are."

Brian caught the bartender's eye and gestured him to get a beer for them both. Then he turned to look down at Michael. "That's funny, because the last time I saw him it didn't seem that my welfare was at the top of his agenda." He paid for the drinks and handed a bottle to his friend. "Or anybody else's."

"That's not true!" Michael protested hotly. "Justin was the one who cheated! And then he does this Poor Little Innocent act and everyone feels sorry for him and forgets what a manipulative little shit he is!" He swallowed a mouthful of beer indignantly.

"Michael," Brian said evenly, "Justin didn't cheat on me. He was free to do what he wanted, we both were. I've already explained this to you."

"It wasn't the same, and you know it! He should have been honest with you."

Brian shrugged. "Maybe. But I'm the one who told him if he wasn't getting what he wanted, to go out and get it someplace else. I can hardly blame him for doing just that, now can I?"

Michael wasn't listening. "And now here you are, a fucking mess just like you were after he got bashed, only now it's worse because you're getting in fights and in trouble at work and it's all the fault of that little … "

"Michael!" Brian's voice cut him off sharply. "I. Do. Not. Want. To. Hear. This." He deliberately took hold of the neck of Michael's sweatshirt, twisting it and pulling him closer. "I'm warning you. Do _not_ interfere in something of which you have no understanding." His eyes held a threat that was unmistakable, and when he released his grip Michael took a shocked step backwards. "Now you go back to putting up your posters. Although, I must say that, given the way you feel about Justin, I can't see why you're involved." He smirked. "I guess you must be too afraid of Mommy to say no."

Michael stared at him wide-eyed. "Just because I don't like what he did doesn't mean I don't care about what's happened to him," he protested.

"Whatever." Brian turned dismissively back to the bar.

Michael drew himself up. "I know you're going through a hard time right now, Brian," he said quietly. "I just want you to remember, I'm still your best friend. If you need me, you know where to find me."

Brian made no answer. He didn't even look round when Michael left.

* * *

TBC


	11. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

HENRY RICHARDS

It's nearly five in the morning, and I'm awake. Ordinarily that wouldn't be such a strange thing; I sleep little these days, especially when I'm alone. But Chris is here again, so I had expected a good night's rest curled against his warm, breathing body.

My mind, unfortunately, seems to have other ideas.

I can't seem to get my little friend out of my thoughts.

I watch him peacefully sleep; honey-coloured lashes sweeping his cheeks, blond hair tousled, his chest softly rising and falling with each slow breath. I realise with no little surprise that I am becoming increasingly attached to the boy. I look forward to his visits, and not only for his beauty: his intellect and wit are a constant delight to a lonely old man. If it weren't for the insurmountable age difference and for the fact that Simon alone owns my heart, I might actually find myself acting like a silly old fart and getting in over my head. But I know only too well that Chris is simply supplying a service; he is required to be pleasant and amusing to me, and he is performing that role with distinction. Beneath his smiles, his kindness and his apparent affection, however, lies something hard and suspicious – something injured, even. I've seen it lurking warily in his eyes.

Chris Hobbs - if that's really his name. Although I think it probably is; it seems far too mundane a pseudonym for the boy to have deliberately chosen for himself.

And yet I'm certain he hasn't told me the truth. Oh, I'm willing to believe that his father disowned him and threw him out of the family home when he discovered his son was gay – I've seen enough rabid, God-fearing bigotry in this country not to be surprised anymore. I know that Mark found him homeless and pennyless in the bus depot and recruited him. But I cannot believe that such an educated, personable, attractive young man should be so bereft of friends and relatives that he would have to resort to so dubious a means of support as this. Mark looks after his employees – they are not abused or mistreated in any way, else I should have nothing to do with him – but I cannot be Chris' only client, and I am sure that most of them want more from the boy than _I_ do. Why is he selling himself like this? Why on earth isn't he at college making a future for himself?

I wonder if he's in trouble with the police. I find that concept just as difficult to believe, unless perhaps he was involved with drugs – although I haven't noticed any signs of abuse. There is certainly no trace of needles on his pale, flawless skin.

Not quite flawless, though … on his right forearm is a recent scar, still red and raised. When I asked him how he had done it, he simply shrugged it off as an accident. But perhaps his father's behaviour didn't stop at verbal abuse? Is that what he's hiding? It would certainly account for his running away and not wanting to be found.

I might make a few enquiries, just to see if there _is_ a Chris Hobbs on anyone's missing list.

He's stirring now, obviously dreaming – his eyes moving beneath his lids, small sounds trickling from his lips. My mind goes back to a comment he had made earlier.

We'd been discussing art and the conversation had come around to the New Romantics, a school for which I have great affection. Chris, apparently was not a fan.

"I'm not questioning their mastery of technique – it's the subject matter I object to. All those love-lorn women."

"Don't you find their models intriguingly androgynous?" I'd smiled.

He'd shrugged. "They're still love-lorn. And 'love' isn't worth the grief, whether you're a woman or a man."

"You don't believe in love, then?"

"Love's just a word heteros use so they can get laid." He'd sounded as if he were reciting from a manual.

"So young, and so cynical."

"'So young, my lord, and true.'"

I'd stared at him. Cordelia, yet. How very surprising he was. I'd laid my hand on his shoulder. "Do you know the definition of a cynic?"

He'd raised his eyebrows.

"A disappointed romantic," I'd told him.

Beside me, Chris becomes a little more distressed; he moans softly. I place a re-assuring hand on his arm, and he settles again.

* * *

Curled on his side, he twitches like a puppy.

Memories sift through his dreams.

* * *

"_Believe me, Sunshine, public sex is the safest there is."_

"_How do you work _that_ out?"_

"_Because nobody can do anything to you that you don't want. Nobody's going to beat you up or rape you in the back room – there'll always be someone to step in and stop it. The most dangerous thing you can do is to go back to some guy's place. Then you're on your own, on _his_ turf, and he can do anything he wants. Any fucking thing, and no one will be any the wiser until your body turns up in a dumpster. So don't ever do it."_

"_Okay, Brian."_

"_I mean it. That's Rule Number 2, right after never fucking without a condom. _

* * *

"_Why do I have to take a test? You're the only one who's ever fucked me, and you're negative!"_

_Brian turns with his hand on the clinic door. "Because you're an active gay male so you get yourself tested every six months. Both for your sake and for the guys you're fucking. And if you ever think you might have been exposed - which is never going to happen because you always remember Rule Number One, right? - then you get down here immediately and they'll give you some inhibitors which will lesson the chance of anything developing."_

"_But I hate fucking needles … "_

_Brian leans close to Justin's face. "I will not risk my infecting you or your infecting me, so every six months we come here together and get tested." He pushes open the door._

"_These are the realities of gay life, Sunshine. Suck 'em up or get out of it."_

* * *

He whimpers as the patterns shift again.

* * *

He's lying on his stomach on Brian's bed, too sore and exhausted to move. He knows he has marks all over his ass and his thighs, and his skin is burning.

_Brian's hands grip Justin's shoulders and turn him, pulling him into his arms, and Justin winces as the sheets scrape sensitive flesh. "I want you to promise me something." Brian's voice is quiet, intense. Justin can feel him trembling._

"_No, fuck promises. You break them." Brian looks straight into Justin's eyes, and Justin thinks that maybe Brian is afraid. "I want your word. As a man. That you will never do this with anyone but me, not unless you're with a guy you know and who you trust and who cares enough not to go too far." Brian takes a deep breath. "Because you make that all too easy, Sunshine."_

"_I don't _want_ to do it with anyone else, Brian."_

"_I'm talking about the future … if we're not together. I mean – fuck - don't go looking, Justin. Call me."_

_Justin raises his eyebrows and giggles. "You mean you'll be my own personal Leather Master?"_

_Brian's fingers dig painfully into Justin's arm. "Do I sound as though I'm joking? I want your _word,_ Justin."_

_Brian's eyes are implacable, compelling; Justin says softly, "You have it." _

_Brian sighs. He pulls Justin down with him, wraps him in his arms. "I want you safe," he whispers against Justin's hair._

_Justin sleeps, warm and secure and protected._

* * *

TBC


	12. Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

DR. ALEX WILDER

I pour Brian a strong black coffee and hand it to him. He looks like he could do with it. He sips and grimaces. "Sugar," he grunts. I pass him the bowl and watch as he adds several spoonfulls and stirs wearily.

"Let's go through to the lounge," I suggest.

"Not if I have to listen to Leonard Cohen again," he grouses. But he picks up his mug and follows me.

Brian takes a seat on the couch. I take the armchair; I don't want to crowd his space. I'm still amazed that he turned up, dishevelled and unshaven, leaning insistently on my doorbell until I answered. Things must be really bad for him to forsake the clubs on a Friday night in favour of _my_ company.

Before I can say anything, he begins. He's obviously screwed himself up for this, and he keeps his face averted as he starts to talk, rapidly and nervously.

"My family was totally fucked, right? My father married my mother because she was pregnant and too religious to get rid of me. So he punished her by getting drunk with his buddies and his floozies every pay day and saving his fists for us when he got home. First on Mom, then on me once I got older. When my sister was born it got worse, although he never raised his hand to her. She knew how to keep on his good side. I used to get double instead, especially since I couldn't keep from pissing him off. He never let us forget that we'd trapped him, and he took every opportunity he could to pay us back. I fucking hated him."

I blink. "Why didn't your mother leave him?"

Brian laughs; a harsh, bitter sound. "She's a fucking martyr! Every time he hit one of us she'd go to church and pray for his soul to prove what a good fucking Catholic wife she was! For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, whether or not he pisses away his wages and beats the crap out of her son – once those shackles are on then it's 'until death do us part' and that's the fucking end of it." He rubs his hands through his hair. "And now the bastard's dead and she's finally free, she spends her time telling herself and anyone else who'll listen what a devoted husband and father he was! She's so full of _shit!_"

"Surely someone could have helped … didn't they notice at school that you were being abused?"

Brian looks at me as though I'm an idiot. "He wasn't stupid enough to leave marks on my face, or do serious damage. He never got _that_ drunk. And Mom always did such a good job of playing happy families in public. She thought it was fucking disloyal to do anything else. Nope, it was the Kinney's dirty little secret and nobody else's business. It still is."

He's right, of course. I know better than anyone how cunning abusers can be; like alcoholics, they keep their excesses secret from even their closest friends. And it's always the back-slapping, round-buying good old boy who's the ugliest bully at home.

"What about your friends … did you never confide in them?"

"There was only Mikey. And yeah, he knew most of it. I used to spend most of my time at his place … his Mom used to let me lie low there when things were really bad."

"So Michael provided a sort of surrogate home and family for you?"

Brian nods. "I guess that's what you could call it. They always made me feel welcome. And Mikey's uncle Vic was the first adult I came out to. He gave me a lot of good advice."

Well, at least I understand Brian's attitude to his best friend better now. When I originally saw them together, I'd assumed that it was simply the classic case of an extremely handsome, sexually attractive egotist making himself look even better by hanging out with someone who was neither. But if Brian regarded Michael as a sort of brother by adoption whose family had provided his only real refuge from an unbearable home environment, then that would certainly account for his continuing attachment. It would also account for why Brian has never taken sexual advantage of his friend, despite Michael's only too evident wishes to the contrary.

"Did you ever try to speak to your mother about your father's behaviour?"

"Oh, she made it clear that most of it was my fault. If I'd behaved better, not provoked him by answering back, been more like Clare … if I'd been a good Catholic like Mom…

then God wouldn't have seen fit to punish me. Or her." Brian smiled humourlessly. "_My Burden._ That's what she used to call me. That's still how she sees me."

"Did you ever tell your parents that you were gay?"

Brian snorts. "And give them more ammunition? What the fuck do you think? As soon as I got into college I walked away from the hell-hole they called a home and I never went back. After that, it was none of their fucking business."

"You had no contact whatever?"

"Only when the old man ran out of cash." He smiles bitterly. "He hated the fact that I got away, that I studied my ass off and made a career for myself instead of being stuck in a blue-collar dead end job like he was. But that didn't stop him from standing there with his fucking hand out when he was short."

"So why did you feel you had to help him out?"

Brian stares at me. "Maybe I liked it. Maybe I liked him being beholden. Maybe I just liked it that he had to ask _me_ – the son who was never good enough."

"It made you feel in control of _him_ for once?"

"Maybe that, too." He's silent for a moment, staring at his half-drunk coffee. "Actually, I did come out to him, after he told me he was dying of cancer. Debbie persuaded me to come clean with him, too; to let him know the truth about me before it was too late."

"And what did he say?"

Brian looks me squarely in the eyes. "That I should be the one dying, not him."

I sigh. "Did he tell your mother?"

Brian laughs, a genuine one this time. "No, she found out for herself when she paid an unscheduled visit to the Loft and caught me _in flagantre delicto _with Justin. As long as I live I will never forget the look on her face."

I can't help but smile back. "She didn't take it well?"

"She should have. It's given her a whole new lease of life. She can't die now until she's saved my soul first. I'm sure God's pretty pissed off, though."

This time we both laugh.

After a moment Brian shoots me a quick glance. "I swore I'd never be like them, Alex," he says quietly. "That I'd never let myself become forced by convention into living a lie. To be miserable for the rest of my life because I'd allowed myself to conform to someone else's fucked up version of morality. I swore I'd never let anybody have that much power over me."

I note his use of my name rather than the usual, sneeringly patronising 'Doc'. I think that's probably a step forward.

"So there you have it," Brian continues. "The fucked up son of fucked up parents. Are we surprised?"

And that's really the problem, isn't it? If Brian's problems are his parents' fault, then who was responsible for theirs? Is the blame to be laid at _their_ parents' door, and so on ad infinitum? Where do you finally draw the line?

"Ultimately," I say slowly, "we're only responsible for our own actions, Brian. We're not Pavlov's dogs, we do still have our reason and our free-will no matter how well we may have been conditioned. And when our behaviour is destructive either to ourselves or to those we care for, then we have to be able to adapt. Unless we want to spend our lives entirely alone."

Brian smiles sadly. "That's just the point, Alex. That's what I was doing."

He doesn't need to add,_ Until I met Justin_

"Brian." I wait until he looks at me, until I'm sure I have his full attention. "I asked you this before; now I want you to think carefully before you answer. I also want you to be completely honest. In order of importance, what are the three things you want most in your life?"

"To always be young and beautiful," he smirks.

"Then you've failed already. You can fight it as much as you want, but you _will_ become old and you _will not_ always be beautiful. That's a fact of life. I want feasibilities, not bullshit."

He looks at his hands. "I told you. I want Justin safe."

"And back in your life."

He sighs. "Yes."

"What next?"

He thinks. "I want to run my own agency some day."

"Third?"

No hesitation. "I don't want to be like my parents."

"Then those are your priorities. Those are the things you need to concentrate on. And you address any issues that detract from your achieving those goals."

He gives me a small smile. "Like fucking and drinking myself into oblivion?"

"That would be a start."

"And how does my behaviour influence whether Justin's okay or not? We already established that's one of my no-control areas."

I shrug. "It can't. But it would mean that if he does show up again, you might at least have a chance of keeping him."

I let him absorb that for a moment, while I think about the last thing I want to say to him. I'm sure he's not going to like it.

"Because what you have to understand, Brian, is that your relationship with Justin was certainly abusive. Just like your parents' was."

His head whips up, but I push on regardless. "You punished him for trapping you, in exactly the same way your father punished your mother."

"What the fuck … " I think maybe he's too stunned to punch me. "I've _never_ hit Justin! What the _fuck _are you talking about?"

"Your mother may never have hit you, but she sure as hell abused you emotionally. And tell me, Brian - which hurt most? Your father's fists? Or your mother's disinterest? Which left the deeper scars?"

TBC.


	13. Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

BRIAN

I walk into the Loft and throw my jacket on the back of the couch. I'm pissed, worried, insulted and strung out, only I'm not sure in which order.

Automatically I head for the answering machine and check my messages. It's been nearly two months since Justin disappeared, but I can't break the habit – just in case, this time, he'll have called.

He hasn't, of course.

Fucking Alex. I'd been knocked through a hoop by his accusation, and the only answer I'd managed was a lame-assed denial. Me abusing Justin? Christ.

I stalk over to the bar and grab the Beam. I slam it on the coffee table and drop onto the couch.

_I want you to make two lists,_ Alex had said. _One, for all the things you've done for no reason other than to please Justin, and the second for things you did to deliberately hurt him. Try to consider the reasons for your actions and how your emotions at the time influenced you._

_What, from the first time I fucked him? _I'd asked. I was going to need a lot of paper.

_No, just from when you started living together, while you were a couple._

I'd rolled my eyes.

_Oh, and Brian … remember, be honest or don't bother doing it. _I swear he'd been smirking.

Okay, if he wants fucking lists he'll get fucking lists. Then we'll see.

I stand up and head for my desk. I root around in the drawers and pull out a notepad and a pen, and take them back to the couch. I pick up the Beam and unscrew the cap. Just a shot before I start my homework.

I stop with the bottle at my lips. Maybe not.

Maybe I owe it to Justin to do this sober. I put the cap back on and shove the Beam aside.

Okay, then. On to The List.

Shall I do the Good Things first? Or the Bad?

I chew the top of my pen. I write at the top of the first page,_ GOOD THINGS._

I underline it.

I place my first number,_ '1'. _I draw a neat circle round it.

I write; _I TOOK JUSTIN IN AFTER HE WAS BASHED._

Easy.

I write, '_2'._

Then I remember that I'm supposed to include my reasons for my actions, so I cross out_ '2' _and write, _Because Justin wanted me to._

And Jennifer had asked me. And I'd felt obliged. And I'd wanted it, too.

Alex said that the list had to be things I'd done only for Justin.

Fuck.

I cross it all out and start again.

I think.

Then it comes to me. Something I'd done that was _definitely_ just for him. Something inventive, original, hot. Fuck, _I'd_ have liked it.

I write_, HIS BIRTHDAY PRESENT._

Okay: looking back, perhaps the hustler wasn't the wisest choice I could have made. I'd realised that, as soon as Justin turned his questioning, uncertain face to me as he realised exactly what I'd got him for his present. It made me wish for a second I'd gone with the roses instead. Now, remembering Justin's expression again, I think that maybe for the first time he'd begun to wonder just what the fuck he was doing with someone like me. Someone so… crass. Thinking about it, maybe _that_ was the exact moment when he became vulnerable; when I left him open to all the fiddler's bullshit.

At the time, I'd put it down to shyness. I hadn't wanted to think too much about how Justin's wriggling, breathless joy had suddenly stilled when I'd taken my hand from his eyes and let him see.

Fuck.

On to '_2'_.

I think.

I think some more.

Look, there has to be a '_2_'. He was living with me for six months, for Chrissakes.

Vermont. I agreed to take him snow-boarding. That made him happy, right? He bounced like a fucking Golden Retriever pup.

But I didn't take him. I didn't say sorry. I didn't even try to explain.

Because I thought I shouldn't have to.

Right, this is fucked up. I've been sitting here for fifteen minutes and I haven't got past _'1'_ yet. I rack my brains; I think of his computer, but I'd bought that really as a tool to help him recover so I reluctantly reject it. I think of everything I've _ever_ bought Justin: pizzas, takeaways, breakfasts at the diner; poppers and shots; dildos and buttplugs. Somehow I don't think Alex has any of those in mind. Even those infantile rules that Justin had insisted on - I'd agreed because I wanted him back, badly enough to accept any terms of his that were half-way reasonable.

In fact, there's only one other thing I can think of that I ever did just for him. For no other reason than to see him smile and to make him happy.

I went to his Prom.

Look how that fucking turned out.

* * *

Considerably rattled, I turn to the Bad Things list.

Fuck, where do I start? Chronologically or in order of severity?

_1. THE PICNIC_

Yeah, that had hurt him, alright. I'd had a shitty day at work, with Vance dumping that dumb meat account on me; and then I'd had to go and prop up Mikey at the hospital when he thought Ben was dying. I'd just wanted to go to Babylon and forget about it all for a while. But Justin had put so much effort into his little picnic spread - he'd begged so sweetly for me to stay with him, it wouldn't have killed me to let the kid have his moment … and just how much of a cold-hearted bastard had I been to have pushed away that pleading hand and crushed his romantic little gesture beneath all the shit that_ I'd_ been carrying around? Because that's exactly what I'd done. Dumped it on him. And it seems to me now that I might have enjoyed doing it.

Which brings me neatly to:

_2. THE HOLIDAY THAT NEVER WAS_

Same thing. Okay, I had to fly to Chicago to secure the Brown Athletic account or chances were I wouldn't even have a fucking job, let alone be made partner. It's not like it wasn't important. But why in God's name hadn't I sat Justin down and explained it to him, told him I was sorry, told him that I'd make it up to him … instead of telling myself that it was none of his fucking business and I didn't owe him any kind of explanation about what I did with my life. I was worried and angry and bitching, so I left him without even a goodbye, and relished the hurt disappointment on his face as I closed the door on him. I can remember thinking, _You don't just get to share the good times, Sunshine._

Fuck.

And if that wasn't enough, I'd still managed to be pissed that he'd gone to Vermont without me. And let him come home to find me fucking some trick in my/his/our bed.

Oh yeah. As if I could forget:

_3. THE ZUCCINI MAN_

Right, so that little episode wasn't exactly meant to hurt Justin. My ego needed reassurance and that's what I gave it. But again he walked in on me fucking a trick, only this time it was a real humiliation for him because he had his little chum Daphne in tow. I remember seeing shock, disbelief, embarrassment and pain register one after the other on his face.

I believe at the time I might have thought it was funny.

And why the fuck did I keep bringing tricks back to the Loft, anyway? Justin knew I tricked, he accepted that, why didn't I just do them in the back room or the baths or wherever? Why did I bring them here, when I always knew there was a good chance he might walk in and find us?

Like he did when he found me fucking Ian.

So that I could rub his face in it.

_Because it's _my_ place. Not yours. I pay the bills! I do what I fucking like here!_

The words are there, in my head, but it's not my voice saying them. It's an older, rougher voice; slurred and petulant and drunk. It's followed by the sound of a slap.

I don't want that voice in my head. Not ever. Not in any way.

I think of Justin needing stability and reassurance, and me acting like some hissing, spitting alley cat marking his territory – defending his fuck-space.

Suddenly I realise that Justin has never brought a trick back to the Loft - except for the times we'd brought one back together. I find myself thinking how I would have felt if I'd ever come home from work and found Justin fucking a guy in my/his/our bed. How I would have re-acted.

Hell, look what I'd done when he and Michael crashed together at the Loft. They'd had their _clothes_ on, Jesus, and I still hadn't been able to control the melt-down in my brain when I'd seen Mickey's hand on Justin's hip. Just that image, and I'd reacted by pissing all over their hard work like a kindergarten brat throwing a tantrum because his two best buddies wouldn't let him join their game.

Fuck.

But this was Justin's home, too. I'd told him so. He was supposed to feel safe here. Comfortable.

So why should he be afraid to walk in the door because he never knew what he'd find on the other side?

Like I never did?

I have one more memory in my head. Perhaps the worst one.

The night Mikey had opened his can of worms and I'd sat in the dark and smoked, and drunk Beam, and waited for my errant blond to return from his lovers' tryst.

How I'd let all the anger, all the jealousy, all the fear that I might just lose him, brew and build up pressure until, when he finally came through the door all tipsy and dreamy and humming softly to himself, it took no effort at all to pop the cork and let Rage spill out all over him.

I'd savaged him. All but fucking raped him.

But I didn't. I made him feel too unclean even for that. Like he was a fucking leper.

And Christ, it had felt good.

If I hadn't been so blinkered by the assumption that I couldn't end up like my father if I never had a relationship in the first place, I might just have noticed that it was already too late. All I needed was to take up bowling and fuck women instead of men.

I don't realise I'm crying until wet spots start appearing on my notepad.

* * *

TBC


	14. Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Michael." Ben sighed and put down his fork. "Why don't you just go and see him?"

"Because the last time I tried he nearly hit me!"

"Only because you were letting your mouth run off about Justin. If someone were to do that about you, especially if I didn't know where you were or whether you were okay or not, how do you think _I _would react? Agree with them? Thank them?"

Michael pushed the remains of his pancakes around his plate. "That's different," he muttered.

"How so? Or are you still in denial about how Brian feels about Justin? I thought you'd come to terms with that."

Michael was silent for a moment. "I know," he agreed eventually. "I know Brian cares. But Justin really hurt him … I can't help but be angry about that."

"And Brian hurt Justin. Many times."

"Justin knew what Brian was like! If you love somebody, you accept them for what they are. You don't try to change them."

"I agree, but that doesn't mean you can't be acknowledged as an equal. That you can't be shown respect by your partner, both in private and in public. Justin was perfectly within his rights to expect that, at the very least."

"He still shouldn't have cheated!" Michael protested hotly.

Ben smiled. "And you shouldn't have interfered. I warned you at the time."

Michael shook his head. "I couldn't just ignore it."

"Then you should have spoken to Justin, and given him the chance to talk to Brian. Instead, you forced Brian's hand."

"I was looking out for him. The same way he does me."

Ben took a deep breath. _Patience,_ he thought. He tried again. "Did Brian tell you when he caught David cruising the baths? Or about him and me at the White Party?"

Michael hung his head. "No," he admitted glumly.

"Then I guess his idea of looking out for a friend is different to yours." Ben pushed his plate away and looked Michael in the eyes. "Michael, I love you more than anything; but you have to realise this blind-spot you have for Brian is unfair to both of you. Brian's life, and his relationship with Justin, is nobody's business but his. And if you try to come between them all you will succeed in doing is to push him further away." He reached out and took Michael's hand. "Having said that, you need to let him know that, today of all days, you're there for him. Forget your pride, and go see him."

"What if he won't see me?"

"Then that's his decision. But at least he'll know you remembered."

Michael nodded, then smiled sadly. "It doesn't seem like two years. I can still it so clearly, Brian sitting in that corridor, covered in blood, not knowing if Justin would live or die … Christ. I've never seen him like that, never. He was so … _hurt. _I guess that was when I realised Justin was going to be a permanent fixture, whether I liked it or not."

"You were there when he needed you, as a friend should be. Now be there for him again."

Before Michael could answer, the bell on the diner door dinged and he glanced up. Ben saw his face change. "Fuck!" Michael snapped. "What's _he_ doing here?"

Ben looked over at the door, and saw a young man with unruly black hair walk hesitantly to the counter. Debbie, pad in hand, fixed a beaming smile on him. "What'll it be, gorgeous?" she asked.

"Um, I'm sorry … are you Debbie?"

Deb pointed to her name tag. "That's me," she nodded. "And who's asking?"

Michael was on his feet. "Don't speak to him, Ma!" He strode over to the counter, Ben following close behind. "That's the guy Justin was seeing!"

Ben put a restraining hand on his arm. "Michael…" he said warningly.

"Yes." The young man glanced round at them uncertainly, then turned back to Debbie. "I'm Ethan … Ethan Gold."

Debbie's smile faded, but she shook the proffered hand. "And what can I do for you?"

"I wanted to know … is there any news?" Ethan swallowed hard. "The only phone number I have for Brian is at Vanguard, and they won't ever put me through. I know Justin liked you, and he said you used to look out for him when he left home … I thought maybe you might have heard something…" His hopeful expression sagged when Debbie shook her head.

"No; I'm sorry. I wish I had."

"Oh. Okay." Ethan rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. "Look, would you take this? It's my cell number." He managed a small smile. "You see, I was entered in the Heifetz competition, and I won. I've got a European tour lined up, but I couldn't just leave and not know if he was okay. So I was wondering, if you get any news, whatever it is, if you could let me know…" His voice tailed off.

Debbie hesitated for a moment; then slowly she accepted the piece of paper. "Of course," she said quietly. "I give you my word."

Ethan sighed, obviously relieved. "Thanks. You have no idea how much that means to me." He threw another quick glance at Michael's scowling face. "Well. I have a lot to do. Nice to meet you." He turned and walked to the door.

"Hey," Deb called after him, "Good luck with the tour."

Ethan smiled and nodded. The bell pinged as he closed the door behind him.

"Well, I hope you're not really planning to stay in touch with that little shit," Michael protested. "We shouldn't have anything to do with him, Ma."

Debbie glared at him. "Sometimes I worry about you, Michael, I really do. That boy isn't the first to have been fucked over by Brian Kinney, and he certainly won't be the last. And whether you like it or not, it took balls for him to come in here and face us, just because he's worried about Sunshine. Good luck to him I said, and good luck I meant."

* * *

BRIAN

My ghost has been keeping me company tonight.

I'd planned to go out. I really had. But somehow it seemed like an insult to mark this anniversary by burying myself in some nameless, faceless trick, so I ended up sprawled on the couch smoking Columbian and listening to old Springsteen C.D.s instead. It's taken me long enough to realise that _this _pain isn't going to go away; it's not going to be drowned by Beam or smothered by chemicals or even battered to death by fucking. It seems the best I can hope for is that eventually it becomes so much a part of me that maybe I won't even notice it much anymore, like the ghost ache of an amputated limb. Something that really only hurts on cold nights.

Like this one.

I finger the scarf around my neck; still so soft, so sensual against my skin. The stains aren't crimson anymore, only a sort of dark sepia. Time has faded _them_.

I don't know if Justin realised that I'd kept it after he'd taken it off me; after Gus' birthday, the first time we fucked again.

Correction: the first time we made love. The first time in my life _I_ made love.

I'd worn it in the beginning because it was the only physical reminder I had of him; it became a sort of talisman, a charm to keep him safe. I'd had this superstitious obsession that as long as I kept it against my skin like a psychological hair shirt then Justin couldn't slip away from me; that I still had contact. Even after he moved in I couldn't bring myself to throw it away, so it stayed carefully folded away in my safe along with my will, insurance certificates and the mortgage deeds to the Loft. And tonight, for the first time since, I'm wearing it again.

I hear Michael's knock on the door, and for a moment I think about not answering. Then I realise that if I don't he'll just use his key anyway. So I pad over and pull it back, and he's standing there with a pile of takeouts in his arms and a sheepish grin on his face.

"I thought you'd be at Babylon, but when you didn't show I figured I'd come and check that you were okay. Since you're not picking up the phone … again."

"In case I was dangling from the rafters?" I twitch an eyebrow at him, and he wriggles uncomfortably.

"Something like that."

"Well, you don't have to worry, Mikey. I'm not planning any more scarfing."

"Or alcohol poisoning? Or overdosing?"

I smile and shake my head.

"Then can I come in?"

"Guess you'd better, before you give yourself a hernia. What _is _all that crap, anyway?"

Michael makes his way to the table with difficulty, because he can't see over the over the bags and boxes he's clutching. He lets them spill out of his arms with a sigh of relief and turns with a dorky grin. "Well, if you're not drinking, popping and fucking yourself to death then you must be taking the starvation route. So I thought I'd better come prepared."

Actually he couldn't be more wrong. I've been eating better than I have for months. I can't pretend that it isn't a struggle, but I've been making sure that I get at least two meals a day. I've even started going to the gym again for early morning workouts before the crowd get there.

But, hey, he's made the effort, so I fetch plates, forks and a couple of beers; we share out everything and take it to the couch to eat.

"You're looking better." Michael makes his comment through a mouthful of Kentucky.

I dunk a fry in ketchup. "I'm afraid that probably isn't saying much."

"No, really." He face takes on that earnest, compassionate look that I either find unbelievably sweet or unbearably irritating, according to whichever mood I'm in. Tonight I'm remembering his silent, unquestioning support when I needed it most, so I don't resent it. "I wasn't sure what I'd find when I came over, after the last time I saw you; so I'm glad. Really glad."

I know he means it, so I smile back at him. "I'm doing okay. I'm back at work now, so I'm just trying to keep myself busy. Trying to knock off the booze and shit."

"Good." He chews a buffalo wing, stares at me; fidgets a little. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said. About Justin and everything."

"It's alright, Mikey."

"No, it isn't. Ben gave me shit about it. I was stupid. It's just sometimes, I feel…" He looks away.

"Mikey." I reach over and poke his arm. "Look at me." When he does, I continue. "We've always watched out for each other. We always will. But that doesn't mean we can't be honest with each other, too. I know what I did to Justin. I hurt him the same way I did you, when I outed you on your birthday. I don't blame him for finding someone else. I don't have the right. Neither do you."

He nods unhappily. "I know. It's just … it was always you and me, the two of us against the whole fucking world. And now it isn't."

"And you're jealous. Like I was when you first started seeing David." I reach my arm round his shoulder and pull him close, buffalo wing and all. "Michael, we've shared things nobody else ever will. Justin can't ever take your place. He has his own place, just like Ben does for you. That doesn't change_ us._"

Brown eyes, wide and suddenly aware, look up at me. "You really_ love_ him, don't you?" he asks wonderingly.

I remember the time Deb asked me the same thing; how, although I couldn't deny it, I couldn't bring myself to admit it either. "Yeah, Mikey," I reply softly. "I guess I really do."

He puts his arm round my waist and hugs me back. "I'm glad you're here, Mikey," I whisper against his hair. And I mean it.

I know my ghost won't mind.

* * *

HENRY RICHARDS

God, what a night.

I don't think I've ever had such a shock in my life. My hands are still shaking.

Let me try and think what could have triggered it.

The day had started so well; June 1st had been brought perfect weather, I'd sold a couple of nice paintings, and Chris was going to meet me at the gallery that evening so that I could show him around. I'd been really looking forward to hearing his opinion. But when he arrived it was obvious that something was wrong; he was silent and preoccupied, far more like the young man who'd first turned up on my doorstep than the person I've been getting to know since. He said that he had a slight headache, so I insisted that we cut short the tour and go straight back to the house.

I made him tea and gave him aspirin, and as he lifted the cup his hand began to shake quite badly, enough for the tea to splash into the saucer. Thinking about it, I've seen his right hand tremble before, although normally it's just a slight tremor. Nothing like this.

I tried to get him to eat something, but he refused: it was quite obvious to me that, despite the aspirin and his protestations, he was in considerable pain; so I persuaded him to go to bed. When I turned in later, he was asleep.

I woke up to him screaming. He was sitting bolt upright, drenched in sweat, and the look on his face was simply horrible. My heart pounding, I'd tried to comfort him but he was completely disorientated and clearly had no idea where he was or who I was, for that matter. He kept shouting a name that sounded like "Bri". Brian, perhaps? Or Bryony? I couldn't tell. Eventually I managed to quiet him and he clung to me for a long time, sobbing and shaking.

Now he's asleep again, and I'm a nervous wreck.

Well. This has finally decided me. I'm going to find out what the problem is with my little friend, and if that means I have to resort to snooping, then so be it.

I make my way downstairs to the lounge, pick up the backpack that Chris never seems to let out of his sight and settle down on the sofa with it. It's not very heavy.

In fact, it only seems to have one item in it: an artist's sketchpad. I flip through it.

Good grief. Are these drawings his?

There are still-life studies of fruit. Landscapes. Quick sketches of people or animals, or buildings that have caught his eye. Studies of hands and fingers and feet. And lovingly executed portraits of individuals; a dark-haired, laughing girl; a fair-haired young woman nursing a baby; and countless renditions of a strikingly handsome, dark-haired man. This individual is usually portrayed nude.

I am genuinely staggered. If these drawings are Chris', then he is phenomenally gifted. What had he said? _I used to study art_. What an offhand dismissal of such ability!

I can't believe that someone with such an innate talent would, or could, deny it. But perhaps it's a physical problem … his hand? Is he simply unable to draw anymore?

Quickly I search the rest of the backpack. In one of the side pockets I find a cheap wallet, and my heart leaps because surely there will be a credit card, or driver's license, or an address of some kind. But all I can find are some bank notes. Then my fingers find a small slip of card, tucked away in a corner. It's the stub of a Greyhound ticket, a single from Pittsburgh to Baltimore, dated three months ago.

Pittsburgh. It's a starting place.

* * *

TBC


	15. Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

HENRY RICHARDS

"Henry!" Marie's greeting is warm and unaffected. She leans close and kisses my cheek. "How lovely to see you! It's been too long."

I smile and return her embrace. "I know. Things have been busy."

"_That_ is no excuse." She looks at me critically. "You're not eating enough. You're staying for lunch."

I know better than to argue. But it's not why I'm here.

"Is Nick around?"

"He's in the den."

"Will I disturb him if I go in? I need his advice about something."

"Of course not, he'll be glad to see you. Go right ahead, I'll shout you when I'm dishing up."

I walk down the hallway and stop before the familiar door. I knock softly, open it and stick my head in. Nick is sitting at his desk, glasses perched on his nose, and when he looks up and sees me a huge grin appears on his face. "Henry!" He gets up and strides over, holding out his hand. "How the devil are you, old boy?"

I smile at his attempt at an English accent as I shake his hand, trying not to wince. He's even older than I am, but his grip is as powerful as ever. He and Marie have always made me welcome, ever since I arrived all those years ago with Simon; and sharing the pain of his illness and death only drew us closer. I have always appreciated their open-minded hospitality and the ease with which they accepted me into their family. Simon was blessed in his parents.

"You're not busy?" I ask. "Because I really want to pick your brains if that's alright."

"Just sorting bills," Nick replies. "Nothing that can't wait." He motions me to sit, and as I settle into the depths of his huge leather armchair he re-takes his seat behind the desk, and looks at me expectantly.

"You still have contacts in the force, don't you?"

He grins. "After forty years, I should hope so. Why, what's your problem?"

"A missing person. Well, perhaps a missing person. I'm not entirely sure."

Nick frowns. "Henry, you're not making sense. Either someone's missing, or they're not."

I sigh. This is not as easy as I thought. "It's one of Mark Jackson's boys."

Nick's heavy eyebrows go up and his expression changes. He knows about my arrangement with Mark and understands my reasons, but as an ex-detective he can hardly condone it. On the other hand, he's never condemned me either.

"I've seen this lad a few times. He says his name is Chris Hobbs. I think he might be in trouble."

Nick rubs his hand across his face. "Henry, I thought the whole idea of using this 'agency', as you like to call it, is that you don't get involved. That's what you told me."

"And it's true," I insist. "You know I don't want another relationship." My eyes are drawn to the framed photograph he keeps beside his telephone: Simon; laughing, beautiful. It still jolts my heart to look at it.

"But this lad is different, Nick," I continue. "He's bright, articulate, educated, and a very talented artist. He should be in college, not keeping lonely old men company."

"So why isn't he?"

"That's the problem. He said his father kicked him out when he found he was gay, but I'm sure there's more to it than that. I think he may have been abused … he has nightmares. Terrible nightmares. And there's something wrong with his right hand, I don't think he can use it properly. I think that's why he doesn't draw anymore."

"And how am I supposed to help?"

"I looked through his things while he was asleep. I found a ticket from Pittsburgh – I think that might be where he's from. Do you think you could ask around, see if there's anything on a Christopher Hobbs … if he's reported missing, or if he's wanted by the police; anything at all, really."

"For Christ's sake, Henry, if the kid's a runaway then there's probably a good reason for it. Do you really want to find out what it is?" He glares at me. "He's not a minor, is he?"

"Good God, no. What do you take me for? But that doesn't mean he doesn't need help."

Nick snorts, and drums his fingers on the desk, signifying his irritation. "If he's of age, and he hasn't jumped bail or something, then he can do what the hell he wants - even hustle for a living. Let it go, Henry. He won't thank you for interfering."

"I'll take that chance." I lean forward. "Imagine if Simon had run away when he was that age … if he was living in some strange city with no friends to look out for him … surviving however he could … you'd want somebody to help him, wouldn't you?"

"That would never have happened." He gazes at me for a long minute, and I try not to fidget beneath his sharp, intelligent eyes. "But I take your point. I'll ask around, see if there's anything known. But don't blame me if it turns out he's got a rap-sheet as long as your arm." He opens a drawer, takes out a sheet of paper and a pen. "Give me what details you have."

I stand up and walk to the desk. I write,_ Christopher Hobbs, age 18 -20, hair blond, eyes blue, height about 5'7", weight about 140. Place of origin ?Pittsburgh._ Nick studies it and grunts. "Little enough. Probably not even his real name." He folds the paper and tucks it into his back pocket. "I'll make some calls. Give me a couple of days."

"Thanks, Nick. I just need to put my mind at rest about the boy. I promise if nothing turns up, I'll let it drop."

Nick smiles. "Somehow I doubt that."

TBC


	16. Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Nice to see things are back to normal." Ted watched as Brian dragged a trick off the dance floor by his shirt.

"Not quite, sweetie." Emmett waved at the two empty bottles on the bar where Brian had been standing. "He's been here an hour, and he's had _two_ beers. No shots, no poppers. And this is his first visit to the backroom."

"True." Ted looked thoughtful. "And come to think of it, it's been at least a week since he last insulted me. Maybe he's sick."

"Or maybe he's looking at things a little differently these days." Ben had his arm draped round Michael's shoulders. "He told Michael he was trying to cut down on his drinking and drugs, and you've got to admit he's been staying at home a lot more than usual."

"Nah," Ted shook his head vehemently. "Leopards don't change their spots, and ad-men don't change their copy."

"Or if they do, they leave it too late," Emmett said sadly.

******************

BRIAN

Well, that was uninspiring.

Not that I expected anything else.

The need is still there, but somehow now it's simply a mechanical release. Perhaps it has been for a long time and I just never noticed.

But then, I'd always had something much better to go home to.

It amazes me now that I'd put so much time and energy into finding the ultimate fuck when it was already tucked up in my own bed waiting for me. Slow and sweet; rough and hard; tender, frantic, funny – Justin had supplied it enthusiastically and unstintingly. He had intuitively sensed my needs, as I had his, and it's only now he's gone that I realise what a huge fucking gulf exists between the intimacy we shared and the anonymous blow-job I'd just received.

I'd always regarded myself as different. Smarter, sexier, classier, ballsier. Luckier, because the luck _I _had was the kind that had been earned by hard work, determination and the inability to admit defeat – the kind of luck that doesn't desert you.

Until you take it for granted.

Justin had been my equal, in temper, in intellect, in taste. As talented, as driven; as stubborn. The only person I ever met who could keep up with me, in bed or out of it. How lucky do you have to be to find _that_ even once in a lifetime?

I had been afraid of boredom. That waking up to the same face every morning would be a fate worse than death. Funny how wrong I could be about so many things: the Great God Kinney - so clever, so fucking perceptive. Well, I never saw _that_ coming, did I?

I could admit it to Mikey. Maybe because he's the only one who's ever seen me weak, seen me cry - because we're brothers. And Mikey needed to hear it, because Ben's good for him and I don't want Mikey to fuck it up anymore, not for some sixteen-year-long fantasy. And if I never have the chance - or, as Deb pointed out, the big hairy cajonas - to say it to Justin … well, at least it _has_ been said. I've made _one_ entry in the credit column.

_These fragments I have shored against my ruins._

And so here I am, in limbo. Eating, working and sleeping. Getting the occasional blow-job when I have to. And waiting for something to change.

(_Extract from The Waste Land, T.S. Elliott)_

* * *

HENRY RICHARDS

Hey, Henry.

_Nick, hello. Have you found anything?_

A pause.

_You're not going to like it._

My heart sank. _What?_

_I don't want to tell you over the phone. I'll come round. I can show you._

* * *

It seemed to take forever until I heard the sound of Nick pulling into the drive. I had the front door opened as he was still locking his car. "Well? What's he done?"

"At least wait until we get inside, Henry, for Chrissakes."

I swallow my impatience, knowing that Nick will tell me in his own time. He follows me through into the lounge and sits on the sofa. I sit nervously in the armchair facing him.

"There's no easy way to tell you. Your charming young man assaulted and nearly killed a fellow student in Pittsburgh a couple of years ago. Left the kid with brain damage. He did a deal, admitted to injury instead of assault and got off with a suspended sentence and community service." Nick looks at me expressionlessly. "Don't waste your sympathy, Henry. He's a thug."

To say I'm thunderstruck is an understatement. I'd been prepared for a misdemeanour, perhaps, and certainly I'd expected family problems. But I've never seen any indication in Chris of violence of any kind – on the contrary he has always impressed me as a gentle, compassionate boy – and I refuse to believe I can be so completely mistaken as to his character. "I'm sorry, Nick. There must be some mistake. I don't think for a minute that Chris is capable of such a thing."

"Based on what, a handful of nights that he was paid to spend with you?" Nick snorts. "Come on, Henry. He fooled you. And I suggest you find someone else to keep you company, because this kid is bad news."

I shake my head in denial. "No. It wasn't just an act. You haven't met him, Nick. You don't understand."

Nick sighs in exasperation. "I knew you were going to be like this, which is why I said I'd come over. Can I use your laptop?"

"Of course." Puzzled, I go and fetch it from my desk, place it on the coffee table. Once I've opened it and logged on, I turn the screen to him.

"Okay," he says as he begins to press keys, "the story is that Chris Hobbs and the kid he nearly killed both attended St. James' Academy in Pittsburgh. This kid, Justin Taylor, was openly gay and he'd already suffered bullying and abuse from Hobbs. When Taylor showed up at their Prom Night with his boyfriend, Hobbs was apparently so incensed by their dancing together that he followed them to the parking garage and smashed Taylor's skull with a baseball bat. The judge seemed to think he'd been unduly provoked."

"But that makes no sense at all!" I protest. "Chris himself is gay!"

"Then maybe he was just jealous." Nick turns the laptop towards me. "Anyway, here's your proof."

I gaze at the screen. He's pulled up the front page of _The Pittsburgh News Daily,_ dated June 2nd, two years ago. Banner headlines: _GAY STUDENT ASSAULTED AT PROM._

I scroll down, and the first thing I see is Chris' face. His hair is much shorter, his face beaming a guileless smile, he looks impossibly young in his school blazer. But it's Chris, there's no doubt; and I feel physically sick.

I glance at the accompanying photo of his victim, an older looking, heavier set lad. Justin Taylor.

Then I notice the caption: _Christopher Hobbs, 18 years old, arrested last night for assault._

My eyes whip back to the photo of Chris and read _that_ caption: _Justin Taylor, also 18, remains in critical condition at Alleghenny General Hospital._

"My God, Nick," I hear my voice saying, "he's not Chris Hobbs, he's Justin Taylor!"

TBC


	17. Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

HENRY RICHARDS

Nick cranes his head to see. "You're kidding." He points to the _Justin Taylor _snap. "_This_ is the boy you've been seeing?"

"Apparently so." My mind is whirling; why, why, would Justin Taylor appear in Baltimore, friendless and homeless and bearing the name of someone who had tried to kill him? It made no sense at all.

"Let me read the whole thing." I study the article; basically it gives me the same information Nick had, with one important addition – Justin Taylor's partner at that fateful dance was his lover, a thirty-year old Pittsburgh advertising executive named Brian Kinney. And if I needed any further confirmation of the name I'd heard Chris – or rather Justin – calling in his nightmare, it's right there at the bottom of the page; a photo of said Mr. Kinney at the Atlas awards. His expensively tailored suit doesn't disguise the fact that this is the same man whose naked body adorns so many pages of the boy's sketchbook.

It's also apparent from the account that Mr. Kinney witnessed the assault on his young lover and was the person who actually called 911. The report stated that he accompanied Justin to hospital in the ambulance.

I sit back and take a deep breath. I'm incredibly relieved that Chris – no, I must stop thinking of him by that name – Justin is innocent. But now I have an even more important puzzle to solve.

"I can't make sense of this," I tell Nick. "I think I need a drink." I go to the sideboard and pour us both a scotch, then retake my seat. I hand Nick his glass and take a good swig from my own. I try to marshal my thoughts.

"So, two years ago Justin Taylor is attacked at his Prom and left brain damaged. The tremor in his hand is probably a result of that – no doubt the nightmares, too. But otherwise he's obviously recovered well, at least physically. He inferred to me that he'd only recently come out to his parents which is why he was homeless. But if they didn't know he was gay before the Prom, they certainly knew afterwards. So if his father threw him out at that point, where's he been living until now? He certainly hasn't been on the streets for two years, he's in too good a physical condition."

"Probably with this Kinney guy," Nick guesses. "Although that's a hell of an age difference there."

"Yes. And the article implies that their relationship had been going on for a while. What's the age of consent in Philadelphia?"

Nick frowns. "Sixteen, I think. I'd have to check."

"Then unless Kinney had been seeing the boy for three years, the relationship was legal. And may I remind you that the age difference between them was not so great as the one between Simon and myself?"

"Yeah, alright." Nick's smile has just a touch of sadness. "And I gave both of you a hard time about it to begin with. But Simon was always older than his years."

"And so is Chr … Justin. That's what first impressed me about the boy; his maturity belies his looks. Believe me, Nick, no gay man would be embarrassed to be seen in Justin's company. Even a mature, successful, businessman like Kinney." I finish my scotch in one swallow. "I need to know more about this boy – I need to know what sent him so far off the rails that he ended up in Baltimore working for Mark Jackson." I turn back to the laptop. "There must be other reports in later editions."

"I'm sure there are, and I can find them faster than you." Nick pulls his cell from his pants' pocket. "I'll just give Marie a call and let her know I'll be a while."

"You've helped enough already," I protest. "There must be other things you have to do…"

"Yeah, Marie wants me to mow the lawn. Believe me, you're doing me a favour." Nick claps me on the shoulder and chuckles. "Anyway, you've got me kind of interested in your Lost Boy myself."

* * *

A couple of hours and several strong coffees later, Nick sits up and stretches, wincing as he eases the kinks in his back. "Well. I think that's about it."

We've trawled through every major Pittsburgh newspaper and publication, and we haven't added much to our catch. At first there had been regular reports of Justin's progress: that he was in a coma; then that he had regained consciousness but the doctors were unable to ascertain the extent of damage; finally that he was in rehabilitation to try to restore mobility in his right hand. There was a brief flurry of activity in late September marking his return home from hospital and the approaching court case, mainly along the lines of _promising young artist's career destroyed by hate crime. _But once Chris Hobbs had pleaded guilty to the lesser charge with the subsequent loss of a media-event trial, then apart from a few protests at the leniency of the sentence from the gay community, the furore died down pretty rapidly. Justin Taylor and his assailant slipped back into obscurity.

We did find one very relevant article, however; a piece by Howard Bellweather in _Out._ Brian Kinney had, it seemed, been nominated for an award by the Pittsburgh Gay and Lesbian Centre for his role in saving Justin Taylor's life. Bellweather's response was to mount an extremely personal attack on Kinney's lifestyle, accusing him of being an amoral libertine and paedophile, unworthy of any such recognition.

"If we're looking for an abuse suspect, I think we might have found him," Nick said.

I wasn't quite so sure. "I've read Bellweather's articles before, Nick. The man is an arse, and a self-righteous arse at that."

"Doesn't mean he's not telling the truth," Nick grunts.

"But Bellweather implied that Kinney and Justin were living together. From what I've read, and seen for myself, Justin had a solid middle-class background. Why would his parents have allowed him to live with a known paedophile? And why didn't the police question Kinney if they believed there was any truth in the allegations?"

"Why are _you_ so willing to believe there wasn't?"

Good question. Because a man with a face like that couldn't possibly be a monster? Unfortunately, I know that isn't the case. But Ihave another reason.

"Because I heard the way the boy called Kinney's name; because I saw Justin's sketches of him. I know how love sounds, Nick, and I know how it _sees_. If Kinney _were _abusing him, Justin's emotional response to him doesn't show it."

Nick frowns. "So what are you going to do? Talk to the kid?"

I shrug helplessly. "It's what I should do. But he has no reason to trust me, does he? If he were scared enough to bolt once, what's to stop him from simply doing it again? Especially since we don't even know what he was running from in the first place!"

"It'd be easy enough to contact Kinney … even if he doesn't still work for the same company – _Vanguard, _wasn't that the name? – they should still be able to forward enquiries." Nick hiked his eyebrows. "Although, if there is a possibility that Kinney _is_ the reason the kid ran away, you probably won't be doing him any favours by giving away his bolt hole. Damned if you do, damned if you don't, Henry old boy."

He's absolutely right, of course. I simply don't have enough information to decide, one way or the other. "Nick," I say slowly, "can I ask you to dig a little deeper? Could you try to find out if Justin has any recent hospital admissions, or if his name has come up in any other police reports? If he's registered as a student somewhere, or if there's a current address for him? Or his family … anything that could give me some idea of how he's been living since he came out of hospital."

Nick gazes at me levelly. "I'll give you one piece of advice, Henry. Be careful how you meddle with this. You could just end up making things a lot worse."

I know. That's what's worrying me.

* * *

TBC


	18. Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

HENRY RICHARDS

"You know, Chris, if you want to use my studio you're more than welcome. I mean, if you ever felt like drawing or painting something. I'd certainly like to see your work."

Justin gazes at me, his blue eyes neutral. "Why would I want to do that?"

I shrug casually. We're sitting together on the sofa, watching _Great Expectations_; Justin has never seen the original classic. "I thought you might like to. After all, you have such an appreciative eye … you obviously have a deep passion for art … I thought you might miss it."

He turns his attention back to the television. "Just because I know about it doesn't mean I was any good."

If I hadn't seen his sketchbook I might have believed him.

"You must have had ability to have been accepted in the first place," I point out.

Justin doesn't reply._ "He calls Knaves, 'Jacks', this boy!" an exquisite young Jean Simmonds says disdainfully._

"Which college did you say you attended?" I try to exude nothing but friendly interest, but I'm not much of an actor. He knows I'm prying,

"I didn't." He shifts round towards me, tucking one foot beneath him as he does. "Listen Henry," he says softly, "you've been really kind; don't think I don't appreciate it, because I do. But this whole thing between us is just business, okay? The fewer details we know about each other the better. It'll be easier in the long run." He lays his hand on my knee, and leans against me. "Now let me watch the film, it's cool."

I can't help but smile. My generation had adopted that description and had made it our own: '_cool_' had defined our entire culture, to the point where its use in subsequent decades was regarded as naff in the extreme. It amuses me no end that _'cool'_ has become fashionable again.

These are the moments when I fully realise the gulf of years between us.

* * *

"So he's told you nothing?" Nick asks, sitting with his elbows propped on his desk.

I shake my head ruefully. "I always thought I was rather good at getting people to trust me, but he won't open up at all. He doesn't so much as hint about his past, not even accidentally. It's almost as though he has no past at all."

"Or one he doesn't want to remember," Nick grunts.

"Last night he as good as told me to mind my own business. In the nicest possible way, of course."

Nick leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. He looks at me squarely. "Which is exactly what I've been telling you, Henry."

I meet his gaze. "Sorry, Nick. I'm not letting it go. Not until I know what's wrong with the boy."

Nick sighs heavily, puts on his glasses and prods at a couple of sheets of paper with his finger. "Okay. Here's what I could dig up. Justin Taylor's parents are Craig and Jennifer Taylor. They have another kid; a girl, Molly; she'd be ten or so. Craig Taylor owns Taylor Electronics in Pittsburgh – not one of the biggest firms, but he's doing okay. Nice, solid, affluent family by all accounts – comfortable suburban home, own pool, private education for the kids … sounds like Justin had it made."

"No medical history? No problems at school?"

"Oh, there's a medical history alright, but not the kind you're looking for. Justin had a record of admissions when he was younger, but all for allergic reactions, mainly to medicines. He had a really bad one from the codeine in cough syrup when he was seven, it says here. But apart from the time he spent in hospital after the assault, there's nothing else." Nick picks up a second sheet and studies it. "But his school record's a little more revealing. He attended St. James' Academy in Pittsburgh, and it seems like he was a gifted student, not just in art. His STATs score was 1500. Yale, Brown and Dartmouth all accepted him. But it seems he applied to the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts and enrolled there instead."

My eyebrows shoot up. I know how much competition there is for the limited number of places available at P.I.F.A. – for them to have offered one to Justin had been a huge testament to his talent.

"But this is where it gets interesting," Nick continues. "See, when Justin left hospital he was released into his mother's care. But her address is no longer the Taylor house. She's living at a new place with her daughter. Seems she filed for divorce in January 2001, four months before Justin was attacked."

"Not quite the all-American family after all," I murmur.

"Apparently not, although it seems Taylor made a quite generous settlement. He's living with another woman now, but he still pays Molly's school fees."

Something in his tone makes me look at him sharply. "_And_ Justin's?"

Nick grins humourlessly. "Not after the first term. Seems he didn't approve of his son's choice of career."

"Or his sexuality, if Justin's telling the truth. And if he did throw the boy out of the house when he found out, perhaps that's what triggered the divorce."

"The point is, Henry, that we don't know where the kid was living up until his assault – whether it was with his mother, or his father, or somewhere else. But we _do_ know where he was living once he left hospital."

I frown. "Yes, you told me. With his mother."

"Not even for a month. Because the address on his later prescriptions is listed as 6, Fuller and Tremont." Nick spreads his hands and smiles. "The property of one Mr. Brian Kinney."

"Why on earth would his mother have agreed to that? Surely she would have wanted to look after Justin herself?"

"Perhaps she tried." Nick consults another paper. "He had prescriptions for anti-anxiety medication, for pain killers, as well as anti-spasmodics for his hand. His notes mention severe mood swings, even violent outbursts. Maybe she just couldn't handle him on her own."

"But Brian Kinney could?" This whole situation keeps getting stranger. I consider the man's photo in the _Pittsburgh News_; his designer suit, his immaculate grooming; his air of confident power. Why would Kinney have taken a physically and emotionally damaged young man into his own home; how could he have spared the time or the energy to care for him? And why would Jennifer Taylor have trusted him to do so?

"There's one other thing you should know." Nick cuts into my reverie. "Guess who paid the remainder of the kid's course fees at P.I.F.A.?"

"Brian Kinney?"

"Got it in one. Kinney's address is listed as Justin's place of residence. And Kinney was the one who reported him missing three months ago."

I shake my head. "This still makes no sense. Granted, Justin went through a very traumatic period but since then his life seems to have been pretty settled. Whatever your reservations about Kinney, you've got to admit that his actions appear exemplary where the boy's concerned. Even if he felt in some way responsible for Justin's injury, he seems to have gone to great lengths – not to mention expense – to give Justin the best chance of recovery. I mean, paying for the boy's tuition, recognising his ability … I have to say, I'm impressed. By any standards, Kinney's actions put Justin's own father's to shame."

"Mm," Nick says sardonically, rocking back in chair. "Except for the fact he was fucking the kid."

"Yes, except for that, obviously," I reply a little snappishly. "What I'm trying to say is, why did Justin run away? And not just run away, but to prefer living as he is now rather than to make contact with his friends and family? What could be _that_ dreadful?"

"PTSD? Maybe the kid's not thinking right, Henry; have you thought of that? God knows, he's likely enough to have it."

Yes, it could actually be that simple. I'd seen friends who'd served in Vietnam turn into complete strangers as their lives had fallen apart; some hadn't survived. Nobody understood what was wrong with them, back then.

"You've got three options, Henry," Nick says at last. "Talk to the kid, contact Kinney, or let it drop."

Well, I can't do that. Justin has got under my skin, and I won't leave him as he is, especially now that I know his history. But I know so little about his life at present, not even his address – is I confront him, and he _is_ emotionally unstable, or deluded, or whatever, then how can I stop him just running away again if he wants to? And if he does, how would anybody find him?

No. I'm going with what my gut tells me. I'm going to go and see Mr. Brian Kinney, and look him in the eyes, and ask him what happened. That way I'll be able to tell if he's lying.

TBC


	19. Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

HENRY RICHARDS

_"I'm sorry, Mr. Richards, but Mr. Kinney never sees anyone without an appointment. He's a very busy man. I could book you in on Wednesday at 10.30?"_

"_I'm sorry too, but I have to fly home again tomorrow. Please, if you would just let Mr. Kinney know that I have to see him about an urgent personal matter? I'm willing to wait until he's free."_

"_If you could give me some idea of what it's about…?"_

_I take a deep breath. "Tell him it concerns Justin Taylor."_

* * *

I sit in the reception area at Vanguard, watching smartly dressed young men and women hurry past. They all have an intimidating air of efficiency and purpose and most of them don't even throw me a curious glance. I'm already beginning to wonder if I'm doing the right thing: if I'm actually betraying Justin when I truly mean to help him. I'm determined to give no details of his whereabouts until I'm sure that he's in no danger from Kinney but I still feel uneasy, and sitting here in the man's domain amid the glass and chrome and plush carpeting isn't helping. The cold leather chairs may be chic, but they're still damned uncomfortable. I really hope I don't have to wait too long.

As it happens, I don't have to worry. I've hardly begun to study the various examples of what (I assume) to be Vanguard advertising that adorn the walls, when the elevator door down the hallway slides open a blond young woman dressed in a dark green suit hurries toward me. "Mr. Richards?" I take her extended hand. "I'm Cynthia Parker, Mr. Kiney's P.A. Would you please come with me, sir?"

I follow her elegant figure into the elevator and wait while she selects the correct floor. As the car begins to rise, I'm aware that she's giving me little surreptitious glances, her expression more concerned than curious. I realise she must also know Justin, and I can tell that she's simply dying to say something. But she maintains her professional persona, staying silent as the elevator comes to a halt, and then leading me down another corridor. She pauses outside a door with an engraved plate bearing the name_ B. Kinney_ andknocks perfunctorily. She opens the door without waiting for a reply, allows me to step past her and then closes the door again behind me. I hear her high heels clacking away down the corridor.

I have no time to take in my surroundings before I am pounced on – there is no other way to describe it – by a tall, dark-suited figure: strong hands grab my arms and I find myself staring into a pair of blazing hazel eyes.

"You've seen Justin?" The only expression on Kinney's face is one of fierce, desperate hope.

I'm too taken aback to say anything, so I simply nod.

"Is he alright?" Both his hands and his voice are trembling.

"Yes," I manage to answer. "He was when I saw him a couple of days ago."

He continues to stare at me for a moment: then his whole face seems to crumble. Abruptly he releases my arms and walks slowly back to his desk. He collapses rather than sits down in his chair, sets his elbows on the desk and buries his face in his hands.

Well. I suppose one could call that a definite reaction. I resist the impulse to rub my upper arms where I can still feel the bite of Kinney's fingers. I'm torn between saying something to end the uncomfortable silence or giving the man a chance to recover himself. In the end, I keep quiet.

After a little while he rubs his face with his hands and sits up. He manages a weak smile. "Well, Mr. Richards, you must forgive me. I don't usually greet visitors quite so physically: I'm afraid you took me by surprise. Please accept my apologies … please, take a seat."

I sit down, relieved to find that this chair is far more comfortable than those in reception. We study each other: my first impression is that he's far more striking in living colour than either Justin's sketches or the newspaper photo had prepared me for: warm, honey-coloured skin; dark chestnut hair; mobile, expressive lips; and above all, those wonderful dark-lashed eyes. But they're reddened and wet now, with shadows around them, and a strained, tight look about his mouth that speaks of lack of sleep and worry; I've seen the same thing on Justin's face, many times.

"You have me at kind of a disadvantage," Kinney continues, visibly gathering his self-control. "You seem to know me but I don't have a clue who you are. I'm just relieved you found me, and even more so that you've found Justin. So tell me where he is and I give you my word I'll reimburse you for the time and trouble you've taken."

I shift uncomfortably. "Mr. Kinney, it's not quite that simple. I'm not going to tell you where Justin is."

He rears up; suddenly his eyes are hard, angry. "You're not going to?" he snaps back. "What the fuck? If this is some kind of lame-assed ransom attempt…"

"Good God, no," I protest, shocked. "It's nothing like that. It's simply that … you said I seem to know you, but the trouble is that I don't know you at all, except for what I've gathered from news clippings. Justin lived with you and you paid for his education; to all intents and purposes you seem to have taken care of him. But that doesn't explain why he's now hundreds of miles away refusing to acknowledge his friends and family, and living under the name of Chris Hobbs!"

If I thought Kinney was shocked before, he certainly is now. All the colour drains from his face and his mouth works soundlessly for moment. "What?" he eventually splutters. "Hobbs … why the fuck would he … no, he wouldn't. Jesus, are we even talking about the same person?"

"Oh yes, the boy I know is definitely Justin Taylor. I saw his photo in the newspaper reports after he was assaulted. Your photo was there too. It's how I traced you, because Justin isn't saying anything. And until I know what happened to drive him away under an assumed name – and the name of the person who nearly killed him at that – I have no intention of divulging his whereabouts to you or anybody else." I gaze levelly into his eyes. "So, Mr. Kinney. What can you tell me?"

BRIAN

What the fuck? Who does this guy think he is, sitting in _my_ office giving me this oh-so-British _I have no intention of divulging his whereabouts_ bullshit? He knows where Justin is, he's spoken to him, seen him a couple of days ago and I want – _need_ – that information _right fucking now._ Bad enough to take this wrinkly old fart by the throat and fucking shake the answer out of him. I'm sure he can see it in my face. But he's not backing down: he's looking at me coolly enough, and I can recognise determination when I see it. Get a grip, Kinney. Justin's okay, he's _fucking_ alive; after months of fear and guilt and sleepless nights I've finally got the news I've been praying for – all I have to do is humour this idiot for a little longer. And if he still won't open up, then he needn't think he's getting out of here without me. I'll track the bastard to the other side of the fucking world if I have to, as long as Justin's at the other end. And whatever's wrong, whatever this_ Chris Hobbs_ shit is about, I'll put it right; just let some supercilious old Brit try to stop me.

Time to get back some control. I clasp my hands together tightly so they don't have a chance to make a grab for him. "I think that works both ways," I say, keeping my voice calm. "I'd like to know a few things about you, too. For instance, who are you? Where are you from, and how did you meet Justin? And what gives you the right to question me about my business in the first place?"

Richards smiles thinly. "I'm from England, of course. Other than that, I'm not prepared to say at this point. Let's just say that my business is in art. I was introduced to Justin – or Chris Hobbs, as he was calling himself - by, um, a mutual acquaintance."

I note the slight hesitation. "What, he's working for you?"

"No, no. I had no idea he was an artist until I happened to see his sketch book. It had several drawings of you in it."

No surprise there. Justin would have had it in his back pack, as always. And most of his sketches are of me.

"So, what?" I smirk at him. "You decided to track me down because of my devastating good looks?"

Richards looks at me coldly. "Mr. Kinney, I've been to considerable trouble and expense to come here today for no other reason than my concern for this young man. If all you're going to do is sit there and sneer at me, then I'll bid you good day. I too am a busy man."

Not good, not good. I can't afford to get on the wrong side of this guy. "I'm sorry," I say quickly as he gets huffily to his feet. "Please, Mr. Richards, forgive me. I've been under a lot of stress for a while and I'm not good at conversations at the best of times. Please, just sit down and let's get to the bottom of this."

To my relief he pauses, then slowly resumes his seat. I take a deep breath. "You say you're concerned for Justin? Is he in trouble?"

Richards rubs his hands together nervously. "Not exactly, although I can't say I'm happy with his current situation. And as to his being in trouble, that was what I'd hoped to find out from you." He sighs. "Mr. Kinney, there were certain things which Justin told me about his past which simply didn't add up. Not to mention aspects of his behaviour which worried me a great deal. Enough to try to find out the truth."

My heart does a quick double-thump. I'm beginning to think something is very wrong here. "What do you mean about his behaviour?"

"He has problems controlling his right hand. I'm assuming that's because of the assault. But there are nightmares, too … terrible nightmares. Almost panic attacks."

Of course, Justin hadn't taken his meds with him. Without the anti-spasmodics his motor control probably was deteriorating. And stress always caused his nightmares to start up again. I spend a few miserable moments imagining the kid alone and scared, screaming himself awake without me there to calm him down; knowing that it's my fucking fault he's in this situation in the first place. But my little guilt trip suddenly runs into a stone wall as I realise something else. Something horrible. How does Richards know about Justin's nightmares? He hasn't … no, there's no way _that_ could happen. Not my boy and this … old man.

It's like I've been punched in the gut.

"Perhaps you'd like to explain to me how come you're an expert on Justin's sleeping habits?"

For the first time Richards seems to have trouble meeting my eyes.

I think I'm going to throw up.

* * *

TBC


	20. Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

HENRY RICHARDS

Kinney's face registers shock and anger, but underlying these emotions is something that looks undeniably like misery.

He leaps to his feet and begins pacing up and down: he's all lithe grace and barely contained passion, and despite his impeccable suit I'm uncomfortably reminded of a caged, prowling tiger.

"So let me get this straight," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "While Justin's mother, his friends, and_ I _have spent the last four months searching for him, and worrying about him, and thinking that he might be fucking _dead_, that little shit has been curled up nice and warm with a fucking _sugar-daddy_? Is that what you're telling me, _Mister_ Richards?" He strides to the door and flings it open. "Get the fuck out of my office. I'm done with this bullshit."

He may be gay but there's no doubting his masculinity; he's a prime example of an alpha male in full territorial mode, he thinks I've been poaching and whether he admits it or not he's jealous as hell. I'm sure that if I were any younger I'd be pinned against the wall by now. I stand up, too: I don't want to give him more of a psychological advantage than he already has.

"You don't understand," I tell him, keeping my voice steady. "It's nothing like that." I realise that I may not have thought this confrontation through as clearly as I should have; I hadn't expected him to be so volatile. I hope I haven't misjudged him as not being a physical threat, because I'm now going to have to come clean about the situation or lose completely whatever initial goodwill I may have had. "Justin's not with me… in fact, I have no idea where he's staying." Kinney continues to stand in the doorway, glaring at me. "Please let me explain," I continue. "He can't keep living the way he is; if you really care about the boy, then you need to hear this."

To my relief a little of the anger disappears from his face and concern takes its place. He closes the door again and walks slowly back to his chair. He sits down, props his elbows on the desk and rests his chin on his clasped hands. His gaze is unwavering. "Talk," he orders.

I warily resume my seat. God, this is difficult. Begin at the beginning, Henry. "When Justin arrived in … well, when he arrived he had no money and nowhere to live. He was spotted hanging around in the bus depot by an acquaintance of mine. He runs, er, I suppose you could call it a male escort agency. He approached Justin, or Chris as he was calling himself. He liked Justin's looks and manners and…"

"He's working as a_ fucking hooker?" _Kinney explodes, leaping up again.

"It's a legitimate business, there's nothing illegal about it. He's not working the streets," I say hurriedly.

"So that makes it alright?" Kinney's screams. "_Fuck!_" He picks up a paperweight and I duck instinctively even though he's not aiming at me. He hurls it at the wall, shattering the glass ball into an explosion of sparkling shards. Then he slumps bonelessly back into his chair. "Fuck," he whispers. His expression is one of total defeat.

In the shocked silence that follows, while I'm trying to persuade my heart to resume its normal rhythm, I hear high heels hurrying outside the office: the door flies open and Cynthia appears, her face alarmed. "Boss?"

Kinney doesn't even look at her; he just makes a vague gesture, part reassurance, part dismissal. Her eyes flick over to me, apparently checking that I'm still in one piece, and then, with another worried glance at her employer, she hesitantly withdraws again.

Kinney seems spent, all the fury gone out of him. But when he finally speaks his words are bitter and brutal. "So what does that make you? One of his clients? You pay to fuck him, old man? Or does he have to fuck you?" He tries to smile but only manages a grimace. "Can't you get it up anymore, is that why you have to pay for it?"

I understand how much he's hurting; how he uses words to deflect his pain to a new target. And I am so relieved to be able to reply with utter truthfulness and at least some dignity; "No. I have paid for his time and his company, nothing more. I give you my word on that." I look straight into his eyes, just as I promised myself I would. "And now you answer _my_ question. Are you the one Justin's running from?"

* * *

BRIAN

God, I can't fucking take any more. Emotional overload doesn't come into it. I get the best news I've heard since Justin came out of his coma two years ago, and before I have a chance to deal with that I find he's calling himself Chris Hobbs and whoring himself out to sad old bastards! I mean, what the _fuck_ is he doing? Christ, have I really screwed him up that badly? I thought _I _had problems, but I can't stand to think of the kind of place _his_ head must be in at the moment. I know him, better than anyone, and the kid would never even consider stooping to that if he were in his right mind. And yeah, I'm a hypocrite because to a lot of people I'm no more than a whore myself – just because I've never been paid, or have paid for, sex doesn't really give me the right to judge anyone who does. But Justin? No, I can't accept that, I won't_ ever_ accept that. Even the thought of him renting out that beautiful body makes my gut tie itself in fucking knots.

But maybe I'm responsible for that, too – I'm the one who introduced him to public sex, to threesomes, foursomes, orgies – I knew he was never really into that kind of thing, not like I was – am … if I hadn't pushed him into that shit in the first place … Christ, I can't think about it any more. I'll go fucking mad.

And I can't afford to let that happen. Because ultimately all that matters right now is Justin. Get him back safe, whatever it takes – worry about the rest of this fucking mess later. That means working with Richards whether I like it or not – and at the moment he probably thinks I'm some kind of psycho.

Come on, Kinney. Focus. You've got to get this guy back on side. If honesty's what he wants, honesty is what he'll get.

"Yes," I hear myself replying. "I'm afraid I am."

Richards raises his eyebrows. I see surprise and disappointment on his face, but before he can say anything I make myself continue. "I've made mistakes with Justin …I misjudged a lot of things. Badly, sometimes. But I give you _my_ word, too … I've never hurt him in the way you're thinking. Only by being a dumb, selfish prick who's never been in a relationship in my whole fucking life and didn't know how to handle it when I finally was. By letting him think he didn't count. Or at least, didn't count enough." I swallow hard. Fuck, it's not easy sitting under this old man's scrutiny, saying these things. But I don't have a choice, do I? No.

"Calling me promiscuous is like saying an alcoholic likes a drink. I saw no reason to change a lifetime's habit just because some kid thought he was in love with me. He got tired, I guess. Tired of trying. Tired of me pushing him away. So he started seeing someone … and I found out." I feel my eyes stinging and blink to clear them. There's no way I'm going to cry. No fucking way.

"So I made this guy an offer. A role in an ad we were running in return for a fuck. He jumped at it. And Justin learned that romance and love mean jackshit when it comes to business. He walked in on us. And that was the last time I saw him."

Richards says nothing for a moment. He's sitting very upright, one leg hooked over the other, and he flicks at the crease in his pants before looking at me. "So," he says cooly, "you taught him sex was just a commodity, like anything else. Congratulations. He's certainly taken the lesson to heart."

Fuck. That hadn't even occurred to me. The thing with Ethan had meant so little – I knew I'd hurt Justin, I'd meant to – but had I really sown that seed in his mind? Jesus, I hope not. I've planted enough weeds in that particular garden already.

Richards must see something of what I'm feeling in my face, because his own expression softens a little. "Mr. Kinney, I'm not trying to judge you or your morals – my only concern is for Justin. You have been admirably frank … and I can tell that was no easy thing for you. I shall extend you the same courtesy. During the admittedly very short time that I've known him I have become very attached to Justin: and whilst I have no wish to see him continue on his present path, neither will I be instrumental in returning him to a situation which is detrimental to either his physical or mental well-being."

I'm about to point out that he has no fucking say whatever in where Justin is or isn't, but he carries on before I can open my mouth.

"No doubt you think I have no right to interfere; perhaps I don't. After I read Justin's story I spent days agonising over the right course to take – whether I should confront him about it; whether I should try to trace his parents; or whether I should take the risk of coming to you."

"You haven't told him you were coming here!" I shout, panicked. "He didn't just run away, for Chrissakes, he jumped off the fucking world! He's not just going to sit and wait for a rescue mission to turn up!"

"Which was exactly my fear," Richards says calmly. "So no. I've told him nothing."

My grudging respect for the guy slides up another reluctant notch. I still get a nasty twinge in my gut when I think of him and Justin – platonic or not – but he really does seem to have the kid's best interests at heart. He was smart enough to see the real Justin, concerned enough to find out the truth, and had balls enough to come find me. And he may be old, but he's certainly no fool. I guess the little twat could have been in worse hands.

I guess I could even like the guy.

"So what made you come to me?"

"I was unsure about contacting his parents. Justin told me that his father had thrown him out because he was gay."

"His father's a homophobic prick. When he found out about Justin and me, he tried to ram me off the road in his car. Gave me concussion. And then he jumped the two of us coming out of Babylon and nearly kicked my ribs in."

Richards looks quizzical. "Babylon?"

"It's a gay nightclub. I hang out there a lot." I pause as the memory of a scared but determined boy, haloed with light, distracts me. "It was outside Babylon I saw Justin for the first time."

Richards leans forward, his eyes suddenly warm and kind. "Mr. Kinney, you asked me why I chose to come to you, and I gave you reasons. But really my decision came down to how Justin seemed to feel about you; when he woke up shouting your name it wasn't in fear… it was in _need._ As though you could save him. And I want to understand. I've spent weeks putting bits and pieces of Justin's story together, but there's still so much I could only infer, or guess. Won't you tell me how it really happened?"

My heart clenches. I can't help but be glad that it's still _me_ he calls for; that, despite everything, this slender connection still hasn't been broken. And suddenly I want to talk. I want to tell our story in my own way, in my own words, to someone who had never even heard of the Brian and Justin Saga. So, before my brain has a chance to chicken out, I take a deep breath and begin.

"He was seventeen when I first met him, and I guess he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen…."


	21. Chapter 21

Well, here's part two of this story. So far it's been mainly about Brian's journey.

This is about Justin's.

BIRD ON A WIRE Verse Two. Chapter One

HENRY

When the bell chimes, I shout "Come on in, Chris!"

I wait until I hear the front door close and then call, "I'm in here."

He's walking down the hall. At this point, I feel dreadful.

Justin appears in the doorway, sees me sitting on the sofa, and smiles. He shrugs off his backpack and moves towards me. "Hi, Henry." He looks pleased to see me; that only makes me feel worse.

"What's wrong?" He drops his pack on the floor and comes closer, his blue eyes suddenly concerned.

Kinney steps out of the shadows behind the door, pushing it closed as he does so. "Justin…" he says.

In that moment, whatever lingering doubts I may have had about the man's motives disappear. I never thought that such relief, such affection, such longing, could be expressed in a single softly spoken name.

Justin spins round; then he just seems to freeze.

Kinney moves slowly towards him, his arms open and outstretched a little; I don't know whether he's trying to convey harmlessness or if he plans to grab Justin should he try to bolt. And I'm not sure that the boy isn't going to: I can't see his expression because he's turned away from me, but his head flicks slightly from side to side as if he's assessing his options. But Kinney keeps closing in on him pace by pace, as he would on a frightened animal; his gaze doesn't waver for an instant.

He's two steps away … one … and then he simply wraps his arms round Justin and hugs him close, his eyes closed, his face pressed against the blond hair.

I leave them alone together.

* * *

BRIAN

Until the moment I see him walk past, until I hear his voice, I still think that perhaps Henry's mistaken and that it'll be some other kid. And then I can't think of anything except that he's there before me, living, breathing, safe. He's wearing a tight fitting, long sleeved red sweat shirt that I haven't seen before, and it's obvious he's lost some weight. His hair is longer, curling softly almost to his shoulders. But it's Justin, thank fucking God.

He's talking to Henry. He doesn't see me standing behind the door. I close it, cutting off his escape route. I think I say his name.

He whirls round and … there it is again. For the third time, that fucking look. Like he's been pole axed again.

He's rooted to the spot: only his eyes betray his panic, darting from side to side as he weighs up whether or not he can dodge me. But I'm blocking his only exit, unless he wants to throw himself through the window.

And then I have him in my arms, hugged against my chest, feeling the rabbit-fast beat of his heart; and his hair is against my cheek, his warm breath against my throat, and all I can think is _thank you, thank you, thank you…_

JUSTIN

_No, no, no. Not him. Can't be. No. Oh God, no._

BRIAN

For a few moments he's completely still in my arms; then he begins to struggle. I hold on. Not for the first time I'm grateful that I'm so much bigger physically than him: there's nothing he can do other than bite or kick, and I don't expect either. And it would take much more than that to make me let him go.

But then he starts to gasp for breath and he's shaking – fuck, he's panicking. I pull him to the couch and sit him down, then drop to my knees in front of him. I rub his arms and shoulders soothingly; keeping my voice quiet and calm I tell him to breathe slowly, using all the familiar techniques to relax him.

His eyes are bugging at me like he's totally freaked. When he manages to find his voice, it comes out as a squeak. "How?"

"Henry," I tell him gently, still rubbing him. "He came and found me."

"H..Henry?" He sounds dazed. Then realisation dawns, and his face falls a little. "Oh. He told you … of course he would. How did he find out?"

It dawns on me that he isn't really surprised. To him, it's just one more betrayal by a man in his life. I cup his face in my hands. "Justin, he cares about you. Enough to know that there was more to you than you were telling him; enough to come all the way to Pittsburgh to check me out before he'd tell me where you were."

"If he cared, he would have minded his own business and left mine alone."

Well, I guess I'm about to disappoint him further. I pull my cell out, flip it open and search for Jennifer's number.

"Who are you calling?" His voice is suddenly sharp.

"Your mom." He lunges at me so quickly that he almost grabs the phone before I can pull back.

"_No!"_ Now he's really panicked. "You're not fucking ringing her! You don't have the right, damn you!"

I drop the phone and grab him again. "Justin …_Justin_." I try to make him meet my eyes. "I have to tell her you're okay … you know I do." I'm struggling to keep my growing anger under control; now that the euphoric high of relief has dissipated a little, I'm starting to feel more than a little pissed at him. Words like _selfish, thoughtless little twat_ keep flitting through my head.

"_You don't understand!"_ he yells at me. "She's better without me! She knows that! That's why she gave me to you in the first place!"

Whoa. Is that what he thinks? And what's with the '_gave me'_ bit, like he's a parcel or a fucking puppy? "You know why she let you live with me," I say quietly. "Because she couldn't help you and she loved you enough to turn to the only person she thought could, even if that person was me. And you have no idea how much she's suffered these last months." Or me.

"And you telling her what I'm doing is going to make her feel better?" He's brave enough to go for defiance, although he doesn't quite make it. His lip trembles. Good. At least the little shit can still feel ashamed of himself.

I take his hands. "Listen to me, Justin. I'm going to tell your mother that you're safe because there's nothing else I can do. I'm not telling her how you've been living. I'm not telling _anyone_ how you've been living. That's _your_ business, and I promise you it'll stay your business. And you know I don't break promises."

He goes quite still and his eyes suddenly meet mine, and he's looking at me with this doubtful, considering expression. Not that I haven't seen him suspicious of me before, but this time it's somehow different: it's like he doubts_ me_, the very person I am; and it chills me.

This is _not_ the Justin I know.

Suddenly he shrugs and looks away. He's realised that whether or not I keep my word is immaterial because I'm going to do this anyway. He's fucking helpless again and you know what? I hate it. I fucking hate that it's me putting him in this position when I swore to myself it would never happen again.

I pick up my cell, call the number. "Jennifer?" I say when she picks up, "It's me, Brian. I'm with Justin. He's alright."

TBC


	22. Chapter 22

VERSE TWO Chapter Two

JUSTIN

"Okay, Jennifer. Yes, I'll have him call you. No, we're not at the Loft right now. No. We've got a lot of stuff to work out. Yes. I promise. You too, Jennifer."

He closes his cell, tucks it in his pocket, looks up at me. He chuffs a little. "She says to tell you she loves you."

I know that. And despite what Brian thinks, I know how much I've hurt her – how much I've hurt them all. Which is one of the reasons they're so much better off without me: without my dramas, my needs.

When I heard Brian's voice, saw him standing there, I thought I was going to die. I have never felt so bad: not about the disgust in my dad's face when he slapped me, or Hobbs' bullying, or even when I woke up from that coma and found out I was crippled and alone. Not even walking in on Brian and Ethan fucking. I never thought I could feel that way about him. There's never been a single time since we met that seeing Brian hasn't made my heart leap, when his presence wasn't the sweetest thing in my life. But when I woke up to the fact that he was actually _here_ and it wasn't just another fucking nightmare, then I really found myself wishing that Hobbs had just finished what I'd started when I'd jerked him off – had aimed better and done us all a favour.

Now I just feel numb, which I guess is better.

I wonder dully where Henry's disappeared to. Presumably he's made a tactfully British withdrawal so that Brian and I can have a tearful reunion in private.

Shame he wasn't so discreet when it came to _me._

I must be really dumb. I'd known he was curious about me, of course, but I never thought for a moment he'd start to seriously dig. I mean, why would he? He paid for my company, that was the deal. No personal shit. I'd held up my end; why the fuck had he started nosing around in my past? Maybe he had some sentimental fucked-up idea about returning the Lost Boy to the loving bosom of his family. Christ! Why hadn't he done just that and gone to Dad? He'd have just hung up on the old fool. Or if he'd just given _me_ a hint of what he was planning, I could have got the fuck out before the cavalry turned up.

Because that's what's happened. I have no illusion that Brian will leave my side now until we're back in Pittsburgh, no matter how much I protest the matter. He's come riding into town to fix poor little Justin and bring him back home, and once that white hat is firmly fixed on his head it's impossible to get off again until he removes it himself.

_Christ! _I can't go back to that, I can't. Poor little Justin fucked up again, of course you can't blame him after what happened, it's just so fucking sad, let's all treat him like he isn't a freak. _Fuck that!_ I'm not that damaged kid anymore. Poor little Justin grew up.

Okay, I'm not an idiot. Working for Mark isn't how I want to spend the rest of my life. But I'm independent for the first time; I have my own place, even if it _is_ only one room and a kitchen; and best of all, _I'm not Justin._ Nobody here knows me as the Twink Who Wouldn't Go Away, or Brian Kinney's Twink, or the Twink Who Can Draw, or the Twink Who Didn't Die. I'm Chris Hobbs; I do what I want, when I want, and I answer to nobody. I give only as much as I want, _I_ draw the line and only I get to say who crosses it. Sometimes I don't even think of _Justin_ for days. Sometimes I feel his fucked-up life is just a crappy teen-movie Daphne made me watch.

That's why I kind of liked Henry. I had no baggage with him, we could talk about art or films or books or whatever, without the unspoken but omnipresent spectre of _Brian's Justin_ peering over my shoulder. Like I was finally just me. He wanted nothing from me except my company; fuck, he didn't even want my ass.

Not that it would have bothered me if he had. If I've learned one thing from the time I was with Brian, it's that fucking really _is_ only fucking. In my naive youth I thought emotions had to be involved too, which I guess is why I got so hooked on Brian in the first place. I couldn't believe that such incredible sex wasn't the product of real love as well as physical attraction. I was certain that he didn't just love me - which I know he does – but that he was _in love_ with me. It makes me cringe, now, to think of how I stalked him. How I humiliated myself, begging for attention like a fucking puppy. Those fucking inane rules, just so that I could comfort myself with the belief that I was different to all his other tricks. And I was, because I was his fuck-buddy and he took care of me. It wasn't _his_ fault I was too young and too love-struck to understand.

It wasn't his fault either that I'm a stubborn little twat. That his tricking didn't make me get it, or his willingness to fuck me in public and to watch me fuck others, or his discomfort whenever I tried to get too close, or even the times he spelled it out in words of one syllables which a four-year old could understand. I didn't get it until I saw him with Ethan, and then it came through loud and clear. Brian would fuck me, whenever and wherever he had the opportunity because there was a chemistry between us that neither could resist. He cared about me, and always would, because he's loyal to his friends. But I would never, _never_, have him. I wasn't enough.

Could never be enough.

Fucking was only fucking.

Telling my father I was gay was like the Butterfly Effect. Like dropping a pebble in a pool, only the spreading ripples just kept getting bigger and stronger until they were fucking tidal waves that flattened everybody in their path.

Well, the waves have fucking passed.

I've picked myself up, or at least I'm on my knees. I'm not going to lie back down.

TBC


	23. Chapter 23

VERSE TWO Chapter Three

BRIAN

I put my cell back in my pocket and look down at Justin. He'd shaken his head resolutely at my silent plea to talk to his mother, refusing to take the thing from my hands, so I'd reassured her as best I could and promised that Justin would call her himself when he was ready. I wasn't really surprised – if I were in his place I wouldn't want to speak to anybody either.

Now the initial shock of seeing me has worn off a little, he seems to have withdrawn from the whole situation. But he's thinking, alright; I can almost hear the gears turning. I study his face; it seems less open, less alive; more guarded in expression, a grimmer set to his lips.

More adult, perhaps. More experienced.

"Justin," I say, sitting beside him and putting my hand on his knee to get his attention. "We have to talk."

He gazes at me cooly. "Since when?"

"Since a long time." I sigh. "Look, you want apologies, you've got them. I fucked up. You don't have to tell me."

His eyebrows go up. "Please," I say quickly, "don't do the _sorry's bullshit_ quote. I mean it. I am."

He shrugs. "I'm the one who should apologise. I was the one who read too much into it … into everything - who wouldn't take _no_ for an answer. You were just being you. I know; I told you that before." He smiles thinly. "I'm amazed that you put up with me for as long as you did. And I'm truly sorry that I made you … and mom, and everyone…worry about me. Running away like that was stupid and selfish, but I wasn't thinking too clearly at that point. But now you've found me, and you can see I'm not sick or starving or anything. So you can go back to Pittsburgh and tell them that I'm looking after myself."

Is he mad? Does he think that's what's going to happen?

"Justin," I say quietly, "it'll be a cold day in hell before that happens. I'm not leaving you here, you know that."

"You can't force me to go back," he flashes at me. "I make my own decisions. I'm a fucking adult!"

"So am I. How is that any indication of responsibility?"

"Please, Brian," he says, grabbing at my hand, his control slipping a little. "I can't go back to the way things were. Don't you understand? It wasn't your fault, but it just hurt too much. I thought I could handle it all, but I couldn't. I hated my life, hated how I was acting, hated never belonging, hated the person I became. I won't go back, and if you do force me then I'll just run off again the first chance I get. So there isn't any point in you going to all the bother, is there?"

The crazy thing is, I understand completely where he's coming from. Ever since he came out his life has spiralled further and further out of his control, and Jesus, if he were doing anything other than what he is I'd be prepared to give him the space he so obviously needs. But there's no way I can let him waste his life like this. I just can't. It's too fucking dangerous, for a start. I want to tell him that things are different now, that _I'm _different; the trouble is, I'm very afraid that I'm not the only one.

It's his eyes. The way they keep sliding away from me. I'm so used to seeing every emotion he feels reflected there, openly and unashamedly; no matter how much I'd ever pissed him off, how much I'd hurt him, he could never hide how glad he was to see me whatever the circumstances. This light would come into his face, and no matter what words came out of his mouth his eyes always told me the truth.

Now they're veiled, uncertain. I can't read him, except for the fact that my presence is making him nervous as hell, and I'm fucked if I like it. I'm fucked if I like the way he keeps flinching back from my touch, when all I want is to wrap my arms around him and never let go. If only it could be that simple. I remind myself why I'm here; to get Justin back safe, back to some kind of normality. I'm perfectly prepared to drag him back to The Pitts tied up in the back of the Jeep if I have to, but his trust in me is zip right now and I don't want to do irreparable damage to whatever's left of our relationship … unless he gives me no choice.

"I'm hoping there won't be anything for you to run from," I tell him. "Who you want to see, what you want to tell them – it's your decision. All I'm going to do is take you back home."

"Home!" he snaps. "I don't have a fucking home. I just stay with people until they get tired of having me around! And if you think I'm going to go back to Deb's, or Mom's, and have them fussing and bothering all over me, then you're out of your mind!"

I note that he doesn't even hint at the possibility of coming back to the Loft and I try not to let the disappointment show in my face. "No, you're right. You need your own space now, I agree. So why not get a place? You'd have somewhere you can work and paint or whatever, have all your shit around, and you wouldn't have to answer to anybody else – you'd be independent."

"What, on my wages from the Diner?" he snorts. "Or are _you _planning to finance it? Make sure little Justin's safe and sound? Ease your conscience so you don't have to worry about me any more?" He glares at me, angry enough now to meet my eyes. "Well, I've got news for you, Brian. I never wanted you to feel guilty, or worried, or responsible for me. I'm a big boy. And in case you hadn't realised it, I'm independent _now. _I can take care of myself."

I recognise his tone; the same anger and frustration he had when he thought he'd never be able to draw again. I half expect him to kick off a shoe at the wall.

I refrain from pointing out that he hasn't got a good track record in the _I-can-look-out-for-myself _department. Go-go dancer and male escort isn't going to look exactly impressive on his C.V.

"You're forgetting_ Rage_," I tell him.

He frowns. "Huh?"

"The first issue is out. We had a big launch at Babylon."

"Oh. Wow." For a moment I see a glimpse of the old Justin; he looks like a wide-eyed kid for a moment and I'm so fucking glad, I want to grab him. But then he closes up again. "It was nice of you to do that for Michael," he says, ducking his head a little. "I bet Deb was proud."

"I didn't do it just for Michael," I say quietly. "You should have been there."

"But I wasn't." He draws each word out, a patronising little turn to his voice.

Fuck. He sounds just like me.

"Anyway, you seem to have a hit on your hands. You're not a fucking millionaire or anything, but I guess there's enough to make a deposit on a place and give you a couple of months to decide what you want to do with your life." I'm not about to tell him that I have copies of all Mikey's accounts, or that Justin's profits are sitting in a bank deposit waiting for him.

"Like furthering my career at the Diner? I don't think so."

"Or going back to college, and getting your degree."

"Oh, we've made enough to cover the fees, too?" he laughs. "Fuck, we _must_ be doing well."

"No, okay, there's not enough for that. But you know your tuition fees are already paid."

"Yeah, by _you_!" he snaps back. "Fuck off, Brian. I told you, I don't want you taking care of me anymore. Find yourself another charity case."

"You're not a charity. I gave you a legally binding repayment loan, and you will pay me back once you start earning. Your fees are taken care of, period."

"And what if I say fuck the degree?"

I shrug. "Then it'll take me a long time to get my money back."

He looks at me with that careful, speculating expression again. Then his eyes flick away. "I don't think going back to college would be a good idea."

"If you're worried about running into the ex, don't be. A little birdie told me Ian won some big fucking competition and is wowing Europe with his bow even as we speak."

Okay. That came out a little more gleeful than I intended.

I get my desserts when I see his face fall a little. "The Heifetz … so he won." He gives a small, bitter laugh. "I'm glad my disappearance didn't affect his performance."

Shit.

* * *

HENRY

I potter around the kitchen, tidying and wiping, trying not to listen to the rise and fall of voices in the lounge. Kinney seems to be doing most of the talking, his tone calm and reasonable. I hear Justin's voice - sometimes raised and protesting, sometimes quiet and reluctant.

I wish to God I knew how he was feeling.

It's maybe half an hour before the connecting door opens, and Kinney pokes his head in. "Uh… Henry. We're leaving in a minute."

He doesn't come in; after his first quick glance at me his attention returns to the lounge, obviously unwilling to let Justin out of his line of sight. I dry my hands and walk over to him. "Brian," I whisper in his ear, "you're not going to be able to watch him twenty-four hours a day."

He shrugs. "I know that. I'm not his fucking warden. I just want to get him home … I'll worry about the rest of it when I have to."

I step past him. Justin is still sitting on the sofa, his head down, his hands loosely clasped between his knees. I sit cautiously next to him. "Justin," I say, calling him by his real name for the first time. "Please forgive me for going behind your back. I didn't know what else to do."

He looks up at me, and his eyes flash. "Because you care _sooo_ much," he drawls sarcastically.

"Yes," I tell him, laying my hand on his arm. "I _do_ care. And if I weren't convinced that Brian does too, I wouldn't have brought him back here."

He gives me a bitter little smile. "Ah well, I'm glad you've discharged your duty. I'm sure you'll sleep a lot better now that you've saved me from a fate worse than death."

"I know you're angry," I persist. "I probably would be to, if I were in your place. But I hope one day you'll look back with a little more perspective, and maybe then you'll understand."

"Don't fucking patronise me. I'm not a child."

I sigh. I hadn't really expected any other reaction, but it still hurts. I get up and walk back to Kinney, who has been lounging against the door frame observing us with his usual sardonic eye. I make absolutely sure I have his attention before I speak. "I just want to say this before you leave, Brian. I have placed a great deal of faith in your motives and intentions towards this boy. Please don't let that trust have been misplaced." He looks at me expressionlessly. "I also want you to keep in touch, because I'm certain that Justin won't. If I don't hear from you, I shall simply pay another visit."

I hold his gaze; we have a brief tug of wills before he concedes and nods a small acknowledgement. Then he pushes away from the door and strides over to the sofa. "Come on, Sunshine," he says, and his voice is gentle. "Let's go and get your shit."

"I have everything I want here," Justin replies tonelessly, indicating his backpack. "The rest of it's just stuff. I don't care about it."

Kinney throws him a quick glance; he looks fleetingly baffled and uneasy. Then he shrugs. "Whatever you say. All your old gear's still at the Loft anyway, so I guess it doesn't matter. If you're sure you don't want to go get anything."

Justin shakes his head, stands up and shoulders his pack. We all walk to the front door, and I open it for them. I notice Kinney maintains a firm grip on Justin's arm until he has him safely installed in the passenger seat of his black Jeep; then he closes the door and, turning to me, extends a perfectly manicured hand.

"Henry," he says simply. "Thanks."

I shake his hand, surprised and a little glad. His grip is firm and reassuring, as is his gaze. Then he turns and walks round the bonnet to the driver's side.

I lean in the window. "Justin … remember, if you ever need me … if I can help you with your art in any way, or if you need advice … or even just if you need to talk … please don't be afraid to call me."

He keeps his head resolutely looking forward. "Yeah, like _that'll_ happen," he murmurs.

Kinney buckles his seat belt, dons a pair of sunglasses and turns on the ignition. He nods to me.

I stand back and watch him carefully reverse down my drive, turn onto the street and then roar away.

Justin never acknowledges my presence.

I realise that the sun is nearly down and a brisk wind has got up. Wrapping my arms around myself against the sudden chill, I hurry back inside.

I pray to God I've done the right thing.

* * *

TBC

VERSE TWO, Chapter Four

BRIAN

I slide open the Loft door and let Justin walk past me before pulling it closed behind us. He hesitates for a moment, just standing and looking uncertainly around him as though he expected it to have changed since he last saw it.

I watch him, and for a moment my chest is so tight I can hardly breath.

He's back.

There's so much I want to say to him right at this moment, but I honestly don't think I could come even close to verbalising how I feel – how relieved, how glad, how scared, how fucking_ sorry_ – Jesus, I daren't even touch him, because if I do then I'll be tearing his clothes off in about ten seconds flat, and he's made it quite clear he doesn't want _that_, thank you very much.

So instead I stride past him to the drinks cart, tossing my cell on the coffee table on the way. I'd had a string of calls which I'd let go to voicemail – Deb, Mikey, Deb again, Emmett, Linds, Deb _again_ – before I'd turned the fucking thing off. I wonder uneasily how long it'll be before they come banging on the door.

I pour us each a stiff shot of Beam. I have no intention of getting smashed, tempting as the prospect may be; but I figure in the circumstances we could both use a drink.

I carry the glasses back to the couch, set one on the coffee table and take a slug from the other. I look back at Justin, still hovering just inside the door. "You going to join me, or are you planning on standing there all night? Because we still have to work out some things, Sunshine."

"Don't call me that!" he snaps at me. "I hate that fucking name."

I gape at him. "Since when?"

"Since fucking always. It's infantile."

Okay. Let him tell Deb that.

"Justin, we need to talk." It's true, we do. On the drive back, he'd barely responded to me; he'd stared blankly ahead, hadn't cared what sounds I'd chosen, had only spoken at all when I asked him something directly. Eventually he'd taken refuge in sleep, genuine or feigned, and left me alone with my own demons.

Now, he moves slowly towards me. When he's curious or wary he has this little trick of rising on his toes as he walks, and he does it now; I bite my lips to stop from smiling because – fuck, he looks adorable when he does that.

He lowers himself cautiously, keeping a good distance between us, and reaches for the Beam. "Brian, why the fuck do you keep using those words in the same sentence? There has never been a 'we' - and even if there had been, 'we' have never, ever talked."

He's a dirty fighter, my Sunshine. He can always land a low blow.

He swallows half his drink. "And. You keep telling me I can make my own decisions and decide what I want to do and where I want to be. But it's all you, Brian … it's still all you. Not me. Not 'we'. _You_."

I get the nasty feeling I'm losing control of this conversation. I really, _really_ don't want to get into a fight with him. "Well, I kind of thought we – you would want to decide where you're going to stay until you can find a place. I mean, I guess you wouldn't want go to Deb or your Mom…" - his eyes tell me the answer to that – "so, do you want to get a hotel room? Or…" I keep my voice casually neutral, "do you want to crash here?"

He flinches back as if I'd slapped him. "No. Jesus, Brian, I told you I can't get into that shit again. That's what I fucking ran away from in the first place!"

"And I told you, things are different. You've made it quite clear you don't want any kind of a relationship with me" – his eyes widen but I plough on before he can speak – "so of course I'll respect that. I swear to you, Justin. If you want to stay here I won't make you feel uncomfortable in any way."

"Like you expect me to believe that!" he scoffs at me. "You've never been able to keep your hands off me!"

Now I'm starting to get pissed at him again. "Seems to me like that's a case of the pot calling the kettle black, Sunshine," I remind him. "And if you're implying that your physical charms are so overwhelming that I'll be unable to resist your close proximity without tying you to a beam and ravishing you, then you're sadly mistaken."

He blinks, and I know I hurt him. Fuck. I _really_ don't want to do that. But then I see him actually considering it, actually coming to the conclusion that no, he probably _isn't_ that irresistible to me.

Jesus. _I_ hope he isn't, too.

"Or maybe," I say, trying to distract him, "even after all you've said and done, and even after all these months, you just can't trust yourself around_ me_."

"I can't trust myself _emotionally _around you," he says sadly. "That's always been the problem, Brian. Letting my emotions persuade me that you felt the same thing; letting me see only what I wanted to see, not what you were telling me. Letting me think this was my home."

For a second he looks so wounded, so fucking young that I have to resist ripping out chunks of my own hair in frustration. If he believes his emotions deluded him before, why can't he see that's exactly what they're doing now?

"Listen, Justin," I tell him carefully. "I told you that night after the Zuccini man, when we made those rules – I told you I wanted you here, and that means that, yeah, this _is _your home. If I was rude enough and inconsiderate enough to let you believe otherwise, then that was _my_ mistake and nothing to do with your perceptions. I promise you now, the Loft is_ still_ your home, in any way you want it to be, for as long as you want. If all you need is a place to crash for a few nights, fine. Stay as friend. Stay as an ex-lover. Stay as whatever the fuck you want. I swear you'll never be insulted, or made to feel unwelcome, in your own home again."

I honestly think that's the most I've ever said to him in one go; no wonder he looks kind of stunned. But I need him to understand that this _is_ his call, no matter what he thinks; I'll take him on any terms he wants and if friendship is all I can get, then friendship's what I'll take. It's a damn sight more than I could have even dreamed of two days ago. And then I'll spend the rest of my life trying to prove that 'we're' worth more.

He ducks his head, then glances at me almost shyly. "I appreciate your saying that, even while I know it's only because I freaked you out running off like that and you don't want me to do it again. It's okay, Brian; the Loft has always been and will always be Brian Kinney's Loft – _Rage_'s Lair. That's how it should be. But I'll stay until I find myself a place – as a friend - if you're sure you don't mind."

I can't trust my voice, so I just nod.

"Okay," Justin says, drinking the other half of his Beam, "I guess I'd better talk to Mom."

* * *

TBC


	24. Chapter 24

VERSE TWO, Chapter Four

BRIAN

I slide open the Loft door and let Justin walk past me before pulling it closed behind us. He hesitates for a moment, just standing and looking uncertainly around him as though he expected it to have changed since he last saw it.

I watch him, and for a moment my chest is so tight I can hardly breath.

He's back.

There's so much I want to say to him right at this moment, but I honestly don't think I could come even close to verbalising how I feel – how relieved, how glad, how scared, how fucking_ sorry_ – Jesus, I daren't even touch him, because if I do then I'll be tearing his clothes off in about ten seconds flat, and he's made it quite clear he doesn't want _that_, thank you very much.

So instead I stride past him to the drinks cart, tossing my cell on the coffee table on the way. I'd had a string of calls which I'd let go to voicemail – Deb, Mikey, Deb again, Emmett, Linds, Deb _again_ – before I'd turned the fucking thing off. I wonder uneasily how long it'll be before they come banging on the door.

I pour us each a stiff shot of Beam. I have no intention of getting smashed, tempting as the prospect may be; but I figure in the circumstances we could both use a drink.

I carry the glasses back to the couch, set one on the coffee table and take a slug from the other. I look back at Justin, still hovering just inside the door. "You going to join me, or are you planning on standing there all night? Because we still have to work out some things, Sunshine."

"Don't call me that!" he snaps at me. "I hate that fucking name."

I gape at him. "Since when?"

"Since fucking always. It's infantile."

Okay. Let him tell Deb that.

"Justin, we need to talk." It's true, we do. On the drive back, he'd barely responded to me; he'd stared blankly ahead, hadn't cared what sounds I'd chosen, had only spoken at all when I asked him something directly. Eventually he'd taken refuge in sleep, genuine or feigned, and left me alone with my own demons.

Now, he moves slowly towards me. When he's curious or wary he has this little trick of rising on his toes as he walks, and he does it now; I bite my lips to stop from smiling because – fuck, he looks adorable when he does that.

He lowers himself cautiously, keeping a good distance between us, and reaches for the Beam. "Brian, why the fuck do you keep using those words in the same sentence? There has never been a 'we' - and even if there had been, 'we' have never, ever talked."

He's a dirty fighter, my Sunshine. He can always land a low blow.

He swallows half his drink. "And. You keep telling me I can make my own decisions and decide what I want to do and where I want to be. But it's all you, Brian … it's still all you. Not me. Not 'we'. _You_."

I get the nasty feeling I'm losing control of this conversation. I really, _really_ don't want to get into a fight with him. "Well, I kind of thought we – you would want to decide where you're going to stay until you can find a place. I mean, I guess you wouldn't want to go to Deb or your Mom…" - his eyes tell me the answer to that – "so, do you want to get a hotel room? Or…" I keep my voice casually neutral, "do you want to crash here?"

He flinches back as if I'd slapped him. "No. Jesus, Brian, I told you I can't get into that shit again. That's what I fucking ran away from in the first place!"

"And I told you, things are different. You've made it quite clear you don't want any kind of a relationship with me" – his eyes widen but I plough on before he can speak – "so of course I'll respect that. I swear to you, Justin. If you want to stay here I won't make you feel uncomfortable in any way."

"Like you expect me to believe that!" he scoffs at me. "You've never been able to keep your hands off me!"

Now I'm starting to get pissed at him again. "Seems to me like that's a case of the pot calling the kettle black, Sunshine," I remind him. "And if you're implying that your physical charms are so overwhelming that I'll be unable to resist your close proximity without tying you to a beam and ravishing you, then you're sadly mistaken."

He blinks, and I know I hurt him. Fuck. I _really_ don't want to do that. But then I see him actually considering it, actually coming to the conclusion that no, he probably _isn't_ that irresistible to me.

Jesus. _I_ hope he isn't, too.

"Or maybe," I say, trying to distract him, "even after all you've said and done, and even after all these months, you just can't trust yourself around_ me_."

"I can't trust myself _emotionally _around you," he says sadly. "That's always been the problem, Brian. Letting my emotions persuade me that you felt the same thing; letting me see only what I wanted to see, not what you were telling me. Letting me think this was my home."

For a second he looks so wounded, so fucking young that I have to resist ripping out chunks of my own hair in frustration. If he believes his emotions deluded him before, why can't he see that's exactly what they're doing now?

"Listen, Justin," I tell him carefully. "I told you that night after the Zuccini man, when we made those rules – I told you I wanted you here, and that means that, yeah, this _is _your home. If I was rude enough and inconsiderate enough to let you believe otherwise, then that was _my_ mistake and nothing to do with your perceptions. I promise you now, the Loft is_ still_ your home, in any way you want it to be, for as long as you want. If all you need is a place to crash for a few nights, fine. Stay as friend. Stay as an ex-lover. Stay as whatever the fuck you want. I swear you'll never be insulted, or made to feel unwelcome, in your own home again."

I honestly think that's the most I've ever said to him in one go; no wonder he looks kind of stunned. But I need him to understand that this _is_ his call, no matter what he thinks; I'll take him on any terms he wants and if friendship is all I can get, then friendship's what I'll take. It's a damn sight more than I could have even dreamed of two days ago. And then I'll spend the rest of my life trying to prove that 'we're' worth more.

He ducks his head, then glances at me almost shyly. "I appreciate your saying that, even while I know it's only because I freaked you out running off like that and you don't want me to do it again. It's okay, Brian; the Loft has always been and will always be Brian Kinney's Loft – _Rage_'s Lair. That's how it should be. But I'll stay until I find myself a place – as a friend - if you're sure you don't mind."

I can't trust my voice, so I just nod.

"Okay," Justin says, downing the other half of his Beam, "I guess I'd better talk to Mom."

TBC


	25. Chapter 25

VERSE TWO Chapter Five

JUSTIN

"Hi, Mom."

She stands in the doorway staring at me. She looks thinner, older.

Her eyes, so like mine in colour, are huge.

Then her face seems to break; she reaches for me, her hands shaking.

"_Justin! _Oh, sweetheart!"

She folds me in her arms, hugs me, rocks me; her tears soak into the collar of my shirt.

I feel like a piece of shit.

Wiping her face, smearing mascara over her cheeks, she pulls me into the hallway, hanging onto my arm as if she's afraid to let me go. I let her lead me into the lounge; it's comfortable, elegant, feminine; and I remember that this home is hers and Molly's – never has been, never will be, mine. After all, I only ever spent a couple of weeks here: now it feels like the house of a stranger. She tugs me down onto the plush, cream coloured couch beside her. She starts weeping again.

"Mom … please don't." I've hardly ever seen her cry, not even after I was bashed, and I can't stand to see it now. It makes me think of all the tears she must have shed while I've been gone, and really, I'm not worth that amount of pain.

She pulls back a little, grabs my shoulders, gives me a hard shake. "Don't you dare tell me not to cry, not after all these months! Not after what you've put me through … and Brian … Debbie…Daphne…how could you have done that to us all, Justin?"

I wince inwardly, even though I know how well I deserve her anger. Part of the reason I ran was to stop hurting the people who cared for me; now I'm back, and it's started all over again.

Damn Henry and his meddling … they'd have forgotten all about me eventually and got on with their lives. Now everything's about _me_ again.

"I'm sorry, Mom." It's true. I'm so, so sorry. "I just…" I swallow. "I was pretty screwed up. I just thought it would be better for everyone if I wasn't around."

Her expression softens a little. "Sweetheart, I know what happened … about Brian and Ethan. I know how hurt you must have been. But not to even let us know that you were okay … Justin, I don't know if I can forgive you for that! Don't you realise I thought you were dead?"

I don't say anything. What _can_ I say?

"Well." She pulls a tissue from the sleeve of her jumper and dabs her face with it. "That's all in the past, now. You're home, that's all that matters." She gives me a watery smile, looks at me properly for the first time. "You've lost weight." Her hand reaches out to brush back my hair. "And you need a haircut."

"I don't know," I reply, moving my head away from her touch. "I kind of like it."

"Does Brian?" she laughs.

"Don't know. Doesn't matter."

She looks at me strangely. "Justin…"

"Don't, Mom. Brian's just a friend, like everyone tried to tell me. I'm crashing at the Loft until I find a place, that's all. Don't read anything into it."

"Sweetheart, I'm really glad you're going to get your own apartment – I'm sure you need your own space right now. But I think you're wrong about how Brian feels … you didn't see him while you were gone, Justin … you don't know…"

"That's where you're wrong, I do know," I interrupt a little more harshly than I'd intended. "And since when are you on Brian's side? You never wanted me to be with him in the first place. Nobody did. Now I finally know what everyone else always did, that Brian will always and only be Brian, you're trying to change my mind again?"

"No, of course not." She laughs a little, nervously. "But if that's how you really feel about Brian, do you think it's wise to stay with him? You always have your room here … why not stay with us until you're settled?"

Because of this, Mom. The endless questions. The endless concern. The way you always worry about me. And however nervous I may feel about being back in the Loft, at least I know Brian won't fucking smother me.

"I'm eighteen," I tell her, and I can hear the irritation in my voice. "I left home two years ago. I'm not going to move back."

"Sweetheart, the last thing I want to do is fight with you, today of all days." She reaches out to me again. "So, where have you been, what have you been doing?"

I shrug. "Got out of town. Got myself a job."

"Doing what?" She's trying to act normal, but it's a false brightness.

"Nothing much. I took care of myself."

"Well, at least you had the sense to come back home at last."

I might not tell her everything, but fucked if I'll lie. "I came back because Brian brought me. He didn't give me a choice."

I see the hurt in her eyes, but she covers it quickly. "How did Brian find you?"

"A mutual acquaintance. He ran into me, told Brian where I was. End of story."

I can see she's welling up again. "What are you saying? You wouldn't ever have come back?"

"I don't know, Mom," I tell her truthfully. "One day, I guess. It was just good for me, having to work things out for myself, instead of having everyone look after me because they felt sorry about what happened."

She stares at me. "That was never the case, Justin."

I let it go. I know better, but I haven't got the energy to argue the point. Besides, I've hurt her enough already.

"So have you seen Debbie? Or Daphne?"

"No, you were first on my list. I'll go see Daph when I leave here."

"I'm sure Deb will want to throw a big welcome home party for you."

"Mm." I'm sure she will, as soon as she stops beating me over the head. But a celebration over Little Lost Justin's return is _so_ not going to happen; Deb's just going to have to live with it. "How's Mollusc?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Growing," Mom replies, with a genuine smile this time. "And she's missed you too, Justin. She'll be home from school anytime now, she'll be so happy to see you."

Somehow I doubt that. My little sister never liked me that well even when I'd been living at home, and usually she'd irritated the shit out of me. Too much of an age difference, I guess. And I really don't think I can handle any more of the Prodigal Son's return at the moment, so I give Mom a quick peck on the cheek and stand up. "Sorry, Mom, but I'll have to catch up with her some other time. I want to see Daph when she gets home from college, and then I need to start looking for a place. I don't want to inconvenience Brian more than I have to."

She can't hide her disappointment; she catches my hand again, holds on. "I thought you'd be staying for dinner. We have so much to talk about, sweetheart."

"I know. Just not right now. I need some space, Mom. Please try to understand."

She looks at me again with the same worried, confused expression I've seen Brian wearing; but, thank God, she doesn't press the point. Instead she nods and stands up, still holding onto my hand. "Well, at least you must let me help you find an apartment. I've got lots of contacts, you know," she says, trying to laugh. "And there's furniture in storage from the old place – I'm sure I can fix you up with the essentials."

"Mom, you don't need to help me out. After what I've put you through, why would you want to?"

"Because you're my son and I love you. What other reason would I need?"

And then she's throwing her arms round me, sobbing again, telling me how glad she is to see me; and I hug her back, and think I should be crying, too, for her if not for me. For how much I've hurt her.

But I haven't cried since the night I ran out of the Loft, and I sometimes think I never will again. Because that feeling, loving, hurting part of me died in that cold, empty warehouse: and what's dead doesn't return. I don't believe in ghosts.

* * *

"You asshole! I could fucking kill you!" Daph yells, punching my arm, and I wince. She's got a helluva right hook.

She's gone from tears to fury in an instant; and I wonder, what is it with women? First they fall all over you, then they beat you up. I remember that I've got to go through all this again with Deb and Linds and Mel yet, and sigh. I'm going to be black and blue by the time they're finished.

"I'm sorry, Daph," I tell her, wondering how many times I'll have to say that phrase before it becomes meaningless - just so many more words. Words like _I love you _or _forever_ or_ home._ Just cant.

"I can understand you not wanting Brian to know where you were, or even your Mom, but _me_? I'm your best friend, Justin! Didn't you think you could trust me?"

"Of course I trust you, Daph. That wasn't the problem. I'd have come to you when it happened if I could … but you weren't here, and I just had to get out of Pittsburgh. I was fucking freaked, Daph. I didn't know what to do."

She mops her face with a wad of toilet paper. "Okay, I can totally get that. But why not later? You can't tell me you didn't know how worried I was! That was fucking cruel, Justin. And I never thought you were like that."

I grab her arms and make her look at me. "I know! Okay? I _know_ it was cruel, Daph! And I meant to let you know I was alright, honestly I did. But as time went on, it just seemed easier to leave it."

"Easier for who?" she blares. "For you, maybe; not for me!"

I take a deep breath. "I was working as a male escort." There, I've said it.

Daphne's head comes up, and her eyes are suddenly so wide it would be funny if she didn't look so fucking shocked. "Omygod! You were … Justin, you weren't. You couldn't have!"

"Well, I did. After I walked in on Brian fucking Ethan, I totally lost it. I ended up spending the night in some abandoned warehouse. I didn't know what to do, Daph. All I knew was that I couldn't come back … couldn't face Brian. I felt such a fucking idiot. So the next morning I got on the first Greyhound I could find and ended up in Baltimore with fucking nothing except a few dollars and a sketch pad. This guy found me in the bus depot, liked the look of me. He knew I was a runaway – I guess he's seen enough of them. He offered me a job working as an escort. I figured, what the hell. It was better than sleeping on the streets. And it paid better than bussing tables."

Daphne's looking at me with a mixture of horror, disbelief and admiration. "So you just … took money for being with guys? Jesus, Justin! Did you let them fuck you?"

I shrug. "Sometimes. Sometimes all they really did want was my company."

"Weren't you scared? I mean, what if one of them hurt you or something?"

"It wasn't like that. They were all businessmen, usually older guys. Not perverts. I wasn't a fucking rent-boy, Daph."

Daphne's expression tells me she doesn't really see the difference. "Well, I guess I can understand why you wouldn't want your Mom to know _that_."

"I'm not ashamed, Daph. I was taking care of myself, I had my own place. But, yeah, obviously I knew Mom would freak about it ... so would everyone else. And I've caused them enough grief. And anyway, it was nobody else's business." I sigh. "I thought they'd never have to find out. I didn't expect one of my regulars to find out who I was and to contact Brian. And then Brian showed up in Baltimore and virtually dragged me back home."

"So Brian's the only one who knows?"

"And now you."

She pushes her hair back from her face and gives herself a shake. "Well, I don't know about you, but I need a coffee."

"Sure. Am I allowed to smoke in here?"

Daph gives me a _duh_ look and heads for the kitchen. I dig my tin out of my pack and roll up on my knee, then light the cigarette and sit back, looking around. The apartment is tiny and there's plenty of evidence of occupation; slippers and various other items of female clothing are scattered around, and text books clutter the coffee table. I guess Daph's room-mates aren't exactly tidy.

Daph comes back from the kitchen carrying two mugs. I move some of the books out of the way so she can put the drinks down on the coffee table, then she sits beside me. "What's this?" she demands, taking my roll-up and sniffing it suspiciously.

"Nothing to get excited about," I tell her. "I started rolling my own because they're cheaper. And the liquorice paper makes the tobacco taste better."

She takes an experimental drag, then grimaces and hands it back. "Looks kinda cool, though," she comments. "Like a tiny cigar."

I nod agreement. We sit in companionable silence for a while, sipping coffee. Daph lights one of her own cigarettes, and then looks at me. "So. What are you going to do?"

I shrug. "I'm getting a place of my own. Brian says there's enough money from the _Rage_ sales."

"Wow, really, Justin? That's great!" She gets all happy and bubbly, and it's nice. It's been a long time since anyone was pleased for me.

"Mom's going to help me look, and she says there's a lot of furniture in storage that I can have if I want … I'm not sure that I do, though."

"How come?"

"I want it to be my place, Daph, not furnished by my mother. Besides, I don't need much. Maybe a bed … a microwave. I think my old TV's there. I'll probably take that. And Brian says I've got to take the computer he bought me because it's taking up too much space."

She looks serious all of a sudden. "What's happening with you and him, anyway?"

"There is no me and him, Daph," I remind her. "There never has been."

She puts this_ really, Justin_ look on her face. "He went all the way to fucking Baltimore to get you, didn't he?"

"Well, of course he did. That's Brian. He makes these grand gestures sometimes."

"Yeah, but Justin, it still shows he cares."

I stub my cigarette out in the ashtray. "That's never been in doubt. Just not the way I wanted him to."

She studies me silently for a moment then laughs a little uneasily. "Wow. Who are you and what have you done with my friend?" I raise my eyebrows at her questioningly. "Since when did you ever doubt that you and Brian were destined by Fate to be together?"

"Since I grew up."

There's silence again, but this time it isn't so comfortable.

"So are you going back to college?"

"Don't know."

"Because, like, I guess you wouldn't have heard; but, um, Ethan, he…"

"Won the Heifetz," I finish for her. "Yeah, Brian told me." I finish my coffee and put the mug back on the table. "I don't know what I'm going to do yet. Work on the next issue of _Rage,_ maybe. All I'm thinking about at the moment is getting my own place. Then I'll see." I tuck my tobacco tin back in my pack and stand up. "Don't get pissed at me, but I'm heading back to the Loft. It's been a long day and it was kind of rough with Mom. I'm whacked."

Daph gets up and stands there, picking at her nails, the way she always does when she's nervous. "Are we okay?" she asks, looking at me out of the corners of her eyes. "I'm sorry I made it rough for you, too."

"I deserved it." I give her a hug, and after a minute she hugs me back.

"I won't tell anyone, Justin. I mean, about Baltimore and – you know. You're right, it's not anybody else's business."

"Thanks, Daph," I say, meaning it. I know I can trust her. She's the only one who knew me before Brian, before Chris Hobbs, before I turned into someone else. All the others were _his_ friends first - they tolerated me because of him - and if I hadn't been bashed … if Brian hadn't decided to take me in and look after me… then by now my _grand passion_ would have died a natural death. Brian would have gone to New York like he always wanted and the rest of us would have drifted apart. But Daph – she's all mine.

"I'm so glad you're home, Justin," she says into my shoulder. "I love you."

"You too, Daph," I whisper. "Always have, always will."

TBC


	26. Chapter 26

VERSE TWO Chapter Six

ALEX WILDER

"He was using Hobbs' name, for Chrissakes. How fucked up is _that?" _Brian rubs his hands distractedly through his hair.

"He was obviously trying to establish a new identity for himself. The old one was simply too painful for him," I say, sipping my beer.

"So he chooses to be the guy who nearly killed him? Jesus."

"Look at it this way, Brian. Maybe, and bear in mind that without speaking to Justin himself I'm only surmising here, maybe it does make sense. Justin felt he had no control over his life – perhaps he felt that he didn't really _have_ a life of his own; that Hobbs had stolen it. Perhaps he felt that Chris Hobbs had literally killed him. In which case, yes, I can see why he might adopt that particular name – to identify with someone who _had _control rather than with himself who had none."

"He's changed alright, that's for fucking sure. He's got cynical … hard, or something. And he's got this fucking negative way of looking at himself. He honestly thinks that if it weren't for him getting bashed, no-one would have let him stick around. Not just me, _everyone._ That it was all just pity."

"It wasn't so long ago you might have agreed with him," I point out.

He glares at me. "Only as it applied to myself. Everybody loved Justin before he was bashed and they haven't changed any. He's an extremely loveable person. So why the fuck can't he see that?"

"Brian, think about it. You spent thirty years of your life building walls round yourself. Why?"

He looks uncomfortable. "So I wouldn't get hurt anymore."

"That's part of it. But it's human nature to try to rationalise things. You weren't loved, or weren't shown you were loved, by your parents; not only that, but they actively undermined your self-esteem and confidence. So if you were rejected by both people who you should unquestionably be able to rely on, then it stands to reason that you would see the cause as being a flaw in yourself – that you were simply unlovable."

Brian shakes his head vigorously. "No. I've always known they were fucked-up. I hated them too much to have ever wanted them to love me."

"On a rational level, sure. But the subconscious is rarely rational. It twists emotions; disguises them; re-directs them. Deep down, you believed that your parents didn't love you because there was a problem with _you._ But that's not acceptable to the ego; it's better and easier to convince yourself that you never _wanted to be loved in the first place._ And you've lived the rest of your life by that ethos."

I'm amazed that I can say things like this to him now, and have him actually sit and consider my comments without storming off in a major queen-out. He's come so far in such a short time, but whether he's strong enough to stick for the long haul, is just too early to say.

"And how does this apply to Justin?" he asks.

"Justin's case is a little different. His childhood was normal: he was loved, he was happy - until he admitted that he was gay. Then his life fell apart in a very short time. It must seem to him that as soon as he came out - as soon as he revealed the real Justin - that was when all his problems started. His father rejected him, you rejected him, his boyfriend rejected him; even this guy from Baltimore rejected him. Hobbs tried to kill him. On some level he must curse the day he stopped pretending and admitted who he was." I find myself wondering whether Justin's willingness to sell his body wasn't to some degree a self-punishment for his own homosexuality.

"So, what? He just fucking reinvented himself?"

"Not consciously, no. He's probably not aware of it."

Brian throws his arms up. "You're right there. He seems to think he's better!"

"Of course he does. Not feeling pain has got to be an improvement for him, wouldn't you say?"

Brian leans his elbows on his knees, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then he lifts his head and looks at me. "Would you talk to him?"

"Sure, I'd be glad to. But he has to come to me."

"Well, we'll just kick that idea into touch, then. He refused therapy after the bashing, when his life was _really_ for shit. He's not going to go now, when he thinks his life is just peachy."

"Unfortunately there's no other way. It's rather like being an addict; you have to accept that there's a problem and be willing to face it, otherwise therapy will never work. If Justin doesn't want to, or can't, admit that fact, then he won't be receptive. He has to take the first step himself, as you did; not because someone forced you, or persuaded you, but for the most compelling of reasons - because you wanted to do it for yourself."

He sits forward again, rubbing his face. "You know," he says quietly, "when I spent every night and every day for four fucking months wanting nothing except to find the little shit again, I never considered the fact that he might just come back a fucking stranger."

"Let me ask you this, Brian. Suppose while Justin was away, he'd had some kind of an accident. Suppose he were crippled, or horribly disfigured in some way. Would that alter the way you feel about him?"

He meets my eyes without hesitation. "Not in the fucking slightest."

"Then you must realise that there's no difference. Justin is emotionally damaged, just as you are, and neither of you are to blame for it. But hopefully the damage is reparable."

Brian's silent for minute. "What can I do?" His frustration shows in his eyes. "He won't let me touch him, makes it painfully fucking clear he doesn't trust me, denies we've ever been anything but fuck-buddies – he's not going to listen to anything I say."

"Brian, you told me that getting Justin back safe was your top priority; well, against all the odds, you've achieved that. Now you're just going to have to be patient: don't push, but don't back away either. Be there for him - be his friend, re-establish his trust. I'm not going to kid you that it'll be easy, or painless, or even that the old Justin will be back good as new in the end. But I promise you this: Justin needs you more right now than he ever has. You told me that he could never be a Brian Kinney clone because he was too much his own man. Well, I'm telling you now, he's probably half way there already."

* * *

BRIAN

I get back to the Loft just after nine. The lights are on and I can hear the TV, so I guess Justin's back from Jennifer's. I find him curled up on the couch, fast asleep, his head propped on the arm; he's going to have a bitch of a stiff neck when he wakes up.

I take off my jacket and sit down beside him. "Hey," I say softly, giving his shoulder a gentle shake.

"Huh?" His eyelids flutter open, and he stares at me for a moment in blank confusion. "Brian?" He scrambles upright and sits blinking around like a blond, blue-eyed, disorientated little owl.

"Have you eaten?" I ask him.

"Um … no. I wasn't hungry," he replies, rubbing his neck and wincing.

"Well, I'm going to have to work for a while. Why don't you get yourself to bed, get some sleep?"

Panic flashes in his eyes. "No, I'll be fine on the couch. You won't disturb me. Just give me a blanket."

I draw back a little, giving him space. "Justin, we've been travelling for hours, you've had the reunion from hell with your mother – you're beat. You need rest - proper rest. So get your ass into bed and go to sleep, and I promise I'll behave myself." I lift my right hand in a Boy Scout salute, but he doesn't smile back – just gives me his wary look again.

I'm really beginning to hate that expression.

"What?" I demand. "You think I can't share a bed with a guy without fucking him? I've slept with Mikey lots of times – Christ, I think I've slept with Emmett. I didn't fuck either of them."

He still doesn't look convinced. "Okay, fine," I say, throwing up my hands. "_I'll_ get a fucking sore back sleeping on the couch."

He shakes his head. "No, that's not fair. You must be as tired as me." He hesitates, chewing his lip – a little glimpse of Sunshine. Then his expression changes. "Okay," he says in a firm voice. "I'll trust you."

Fuck. I hope _I _can trust me.

Justin climbs wearily to his feet and makes his way to the bedroom steps. At the bottom he pauses, and looks back over his shoulder at me. Once upon a time it would have been a glance full of promise and seduction and invitation – now it's just a look.

"Night, Brian," he says.

I think this kid will break my fucking heart.

* * *

When I close down my laptop it's a couple of hours later. Fuck, I'm tired.

I switch off the lights and drag myself up to the bedroom. Justin's curled up on his side, as far away from my side of the bed as possible. I sigh, strip to my shorts, and consider a shower. Fuck it, I'm too tired; and it's not like I have any reason to make the effort. I pull back the duvet and slide under it, then lie quite still facing Justin's back. He's wearing a pair of his old sweats and a t shirt.

He's definitely asleep; his breathing is slow and even, and he's making soft little Justin-snores. I'm so grateful, so fucking happy that he's here in my bed again, that he'll be here when I wake up tomorrow; and I don't even give a fuck whether it's for one night or two or a week or forever.

He's here now.

I daren't move any closer to him, though my body aches to. Instead I reach out and tentatively rest my hand on his waist, taking what comfort I can from the slight, tenuous contact. That's all I can do.

TBC


	27. Chapter 27

VERSE TWO Chapter Seven

BRIAN

_I love you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm, y__our hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm;_

_Many loved before us, I know that we are not new, i__n cities and in forests they smiled like me and you._

_But now it's come to distances and both of us must try –_

_Your eyes are soft with sorrow – h__ey, that's no way to say goodbye._

_I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time; w__alk me to the corner – our steps will always rhyme;_

_You know my love goes with you as your love stays with me, t__hat's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea. _

_But let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie –_

_Your eyes are soft with sorrow – h__ey, that's no way to say goodbye._

********

Fuck knows why that old Cohen song keeps running through my brain. Perhaps it's because of seeing Alex last night. Perhaps because it's a Cohen song I actually _like._

Perhaps because it's so fucking apt.

I woke a while ago, with something warm and heavy pressed against me and an achingly familiar blond mop of hair on my shoulder.

Justin.

The moment when realisation hit, when the knowledge that he truly was here safe beside me registered in my fuddled brain, was without any shadow of a doubt the best fucking waking-up present I have ever had in my life. Even remembering that today he'll start making plans to leave me again – even that couldn't take the shine off it.

And knowing that his body still unconsciously reacted to me no matter what his mind said – well, that made me pretty fucking happy, too.

So I'm lying here, luxuriating in the warmth and scent of my boy, not daring to move in case I wake him and shatter this totally, disgustingly perfect moment.

The only trouble is, Justin's body isn't the only one responding. Fuck.

It pisses me off so much that I can't pin down the last time I fucked him. I didn't know at the time that it was.

I know the last time I touched him sexually was the night Mikey told me he'd seen Justin with the Fiddler – Jesus, how ironic is that. Out of all the times we'd loved and laughed and fought, all the heat and passion and tenderness and hunger – and our last physical contact was one of anger and jealousy and vindictiveness. _Mea culpa. Mea fucking maxima culpa._

I'd sell my soul willingly to have the chance to replay_ that_ scene.

So if this is the last … and Christ, it could very well be … if this is the last time I'm ever going to lie here in this bed holding him, then I'm not going to spoil a fucking second of it. And my dick is just going to have to live with it.

Because this is the gift that Justin always brings me - he focuses me: he grounds me solidly in the present moment, so that I'm not always thinking about winning the next account, or fucking the next trick, or buying the next pair of Gucci loafers. My only concern is_ now;_ my only concern is _us. _When I'm with Justin, time seems to stretch out like taffy so that every second becomes memorable, every sensation registers with absolute clarity; in his presence my whole nervous system is on permanent sensory overload. If Anita could bottle the high I get from him, she'd make a fucking fortune.

He's always done that to me. From the first moment I saw him, that innocent, questing, beautiful man-child, I was fucking lost.

I just didn't know it. Then wouldn't accept it. Then fought it. Then denied it.

I have no experience of love. I mean, I do: because I love Mikey, and Linds and Gus. That's why I can say it to them. Deb and Vic, too. I'd die for any of them, I guess.

But if the way I feel about them is 'love', then I don't love Justin. I have no description, no comparison, no frame of reference for the emotion _he_ makes me feel. Which I guess is why I've always resisted putting a trite label on it. Confining it. Defining it.

Maybe I should invent a whole new concept with a completely new word to describe it, and tell Justin _that_.

I have a thousand million images of him seared onto the back of my eyes, branded into my brain. And I know that wherever we are, whatever the future holds, whether we're together or not – I know with absolute certainty that, when my time finally comes, Justin's face will be the last thing on earth that I see.

And I swear that if I knew right at this second that the whole fucked-up world was about to end, that the missiles were flying and we all of us had five minutes left to live – I swear that it wouldn't be Linds, or Mikey or even Gus I'd be thinking about. I'd simply hold Justin even closer and thank fucking God – yeah, God – that I still _had_ five minutes to be with him.

Which is really about all I get before I feel his breathing change: he stirs a little, shifting his arm where it's been lying on my chest. His eyelids flutter and open, he looks up at me and I get to watch my own earlier experience replayed in his eyes. Just for a second I see my Sunshine peeking out at me before he dives for cover again.

He mutters, "Sorry, Brian," before scooting away from me as if I was burning him. He hustles out of bed and I watch him as he beats a hasty retreat to the bathroom.

I roll over into the warm place he's just vacated and close my eyes again. Fuck.

* * *

JUSTIN

Fuck. _Fuck!_

I knew that would happen. I knew if we slept in the same bed – if we even got too close to each other – I'd act like a stupid little faggot and make a fool of myself. Just like he told me last night … I don't have the ability to resist him. I'm like a fucking pathetic addict; one sniff of Kinney and I'm right back where I started. Thank God he kept his word – if he'd grabbed the opportunity for a quick fuck, and judging from the bulge in the duvet he certainly wanted to – I don't know that I'd have had the strength to say no.

I strip quickly and get in the shower, turning the heat up as high as I can stand it, and let the stinging needles beat down on my back and scalp. I try not to think of all the times I've shared this morning ritual with Brian.

How I never will again.

And already I can feel the all-too familiar pain gnawing me again as the memories come flooding back: the sense of loss, of disappointment, of humiliation. The recognition of my own inadequacies and idiocies – all the old insecurities welling up, after I'd finally begun to believe they were gone for good. The hopeless, helpless hunger for him. And I can't let that happen. Won't. Won't let myself be open and vulnerable again.

This time, it might kill me.

This is why I have to get out of here as soon as I can. I'll take anything as long as it's got four walls, a roof and a lock on the door. Then I can get myself back together and figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my life.

I turn off the shower, shaking the water from my hair, and grab a towel. I scrub myself dry, relishing the burn against my already stinging skin.

I wrap the towel firmly around my waist, and glance down at my right hand, turning it and spreading the fingers so I can see the word tattooed down the side of the index.

_Resist_, Justin.

Never forget.

I gather myself, straighten my shoulders, and walk steadily back to the bedroom.

Brian's up, wearing his jeans, making the bed. I go to the closet for a shirt and pants. "I'm amazed you hung on to all my stuff."

Brian turns and smirks at me. "Well, I did think about bagging it all up for Oxfam, but I figured Africa had enough problems already without being corrupted by your twink fashion sense."

I've turned my back on him, reaching for hangers, when I realise he's standing right behind me. I try to duck back, but he's already grabbed my right wrist. "What the fuck is that?"

For a moment I think he's seen the tattoo, but it's my inside forearm that's the object of his scrutiny, and the long, pink scar still visible there. "I cut it on some glass," I say, trying to pull my hand free, but his grip is immovable.

"How? When?" His eyes are on mine now, with that look in them which means he expects the answer now, please, and no fucking about.

So I tell him.

"After I walked in on you fucking Ethan, I ran. I didn't think where I was going. It was getting dark so I broke into an abandoned warehouse and I cut my arm on the window. End of story."

"No, it isn't." Brian's sounds as if he's struggling to keep his voice quiet. He lightly traces the scar with his left forefinger, and my skin crackles beneath his touch. "It must have bled a lot."

"I guess."

"You used your P.I.F.A. scarf to tie it up, didn't you?"

I'm so surprised that that I jump a little. "Yes … yes, I did. How do you know?"

"Because I'm the one who had to go and identify it as yours when the cops found it," he snaps, abruptly releasing my arm and striding away out of the bedroom.

The cops? The cops were looking for me? Shaken, I grab underwear from the drawer and dress hurriedly. Then I follow Brian.

He's banging about in the kitchen, making coffee. I approach him warily. "Brian, why were the police involved?"

He whips round, his face tight and angry. "Oh, I can't imagine. Perhaps because you ran out of here in what I suppose you could describe as a highly emotional state. Perhaps because you had no fucking money, no fucking clothes, no fucking place to go and nobody – not your mother, not your best friend, not me, not fucking_ anybody_ had any fucking idea what had happened to you!" His voice had risen to a barely controlled yell, his fists clenched, flecks of spittle flying from his lips. "So when the police found _your_ fucking scarf covered in _your_ fucking blood in a fucking trash can, _what the fuck do suppose we all fucking thought, Sunshine? Just how fucking naïve are you?"_

I flinch from his anger.

If he'd hit me with a brick, I couldn't have been more shocked.

Because it really hadn't occurred to me. After all, it wasn't like I was a minor. I'd just assumed they'd all realise that I'd simply taken off, like I did when I ran away to New York. I knew they'd be worried, sure, but never for one second did I think that the police might be looking for me … or my body.

When Mom said she thought I was dead, I'd put it down to her over-dramatising. I didn't know she had good grounds for thinking the worst.

"I'm sorry." Fuck, am I ever going to stop saying that? But what other words are there? "I didn't think…"

Brian takes a deep breath and slowly relaxes his hands. "Evidently," he says quietly, and turns back to the coffee.

I need a smoke. I go and dig my tin out of my backpack and perch on a stool, rolling up on the kitchen counter. Brian sets a mug of coffee before me. "When did you start smoking those?" His voice is casual again.

"A while ago." I inhale deeply, and I feel him staring. "What?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head, a little half smile on his lips. "Nothing at all." He leans on the counter beside me and takes the roll-up. Again that little _frisson_ as our fingers brush together. He draws in a breath, holds it, then lets out a thin plume of smoke. "Not bad," he shrugs.

I take the roll-up back before he finishes it. "Brian … I really had no idea you'd find that scarf and think something had happened to me. And you're right, that was naïve and stupid and fucking thoughtless. And I'm really sorry." Brian silently mouths, _sorry's bullshit,_ smirking and waggling his head from side to side. "Okay, I know. I'm not saying I'm sorry for leaving, because I'm not. I'd do it again. But I should have found some way to let you know I was alright."

He seems to consider for a moment, then gives a small, accepting nod. "So what are your plans for today?" he asks, sipping his coffee.

"Flat hunting with Mom. She's picking me up at ten."

"And I've got to get ready for work." Brian picks up his mug and heads towards the bedroom. Then he stops and turns. His face is unreadable. "Justin … I hope you find what you're looking for."

* * *

Lyrics from Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye by Leonard Cohen

TBC


	28. Chapter 28

VERSE TWO Chapter Eight

JUSTIN

"Mom, it's exactly what I'm looking for." I stand gazing around at the large, nearly empty space. There's plenty of room to work, there are no carpets to be ruined by paint, and the light's wonderful. Or it will be once I've cleaned the layers of filth from the windows.

"But, sweetheart," Mom protests, wrinkling her patrician little nose, "it's disgusting. It probably has cockroaches. And you have to share a bathroom!" She sounds as if there could be no worse fate.

"But I can afford it," I say happily. "And it won't be so bad once it's clean, and I've got some furniture – a bed-settee and a table for the computer… some trestles to paint on…"

"You don't even have a kitchen! You need a cooker … a fridge…"

"I've got a sink. And a microwave and an ice-box will do me fine."

"Justin, I really don't think…"

"Mom, it's my money. My decision what I spend it on. And this is what I want."

To my surprise she backs down. "If your mind's made up, sweetheart, then I guess I'm not going to change it." She looks around distastefully at the bare rafters and supporting girders. "You do realise that it's another Loft, don't you?"

"No, it's not another Loft. It's_ my_ Loft." I kiss her cheek. "Now let me buy you a celebration lunch."

* * *

When we walk into the diner I'm pleased to see that we've missed the lunch rush. I haven't spoken to any of Brian's friends since I got back, and I'm more than a little nervous of their reaction. I don't think Deb will do me serious injury with Mom there, but you never know with the Novotnys. If it gets embarrassing then I'd rather have as few witnesses as possible.

Luckily only Emmett's there. He looks up when we walk in, and before I can draw breath I'm smothered by squealing, bouncing, weeping fuchsia-pink lycra.

"Baby!" he sobs into my neck. "Oh, I'm so happy to see you, you have no idea! We've all missed you so much!"

Eventually I manage to prise myself out of his embrace. "Missed you too, Em," I say, kissing his cheek. And it's true, I have. I always thought that Emmett, out of all of them, was the one who maybe genuinely liked me.

Then I realise Debbie's standing there watching, snapping her gum. I wait for the explosion. But instead she steps up to me, gives me a gentle hug and a simple kiss. "Welcome home, Sunshine," is all she says.

Mom and I sit down at Emmett's table. He uses his napkin to wipe his face, then blinks at me tearfully. "When Brian called and said you were back, I wasn't really surprised," he hiccups. "Well, obviously I _was_, because I wasn't expecting it. But I always knew I'd see you again one day… I told Teddy,_ he'll show up, you just wait._ I did … didn't I?" He looks at Mom for confirmation. Then he starts sobbing again.

"How is Ted?" I ask, hoping to distract him.

"Oh, of course you wouldn't know. Well, he and I decided that … well, Teddy decided he was in love with me. And then I decided that maybe I loved him, too. So we moved in together. At his place. Only, that didn't work out, so we bought a house. And then Teddy got prosecuted for employing under-age staff at his porn-site, so he had to close down. And we had to sell the house to pay his fine. So then he got really depressed and started using crystal, and fucking around and behaving like a total bastard. So we split up. And now he's in re-hab."

Emmett wipes his eyes, and manages a watery smile. "I'm sorry, I guess I'm a tad emotional right now."

My stunned silence is broken by Deb plonking down on the table a chicken salad and iced water for Mom, and a triple cheeseburger, extra fries and a chocolate shake for me. I stare at the teetering pile dubiously. I don't eat that amount of food in one go anymore.

She must see the look on my face because she wags a finger at me. "Button your lip and eat," she snaps. "You need to put on some weight. That bubble-butt's a shadow of it's former self." Then she reaches out and runs her hand gently over my hair. "It's good to have you back, Honey."

I'm amazed at her restraint. I know I'm only part of her family by default, but she took her surrogate duties seriously and I'd really expected an inquisition about what I'd been doing, followed by a healthy dose of Novotny wisdom regarding my future. But she just pats my shoulder and goes back to her tables.

I try to get my mouth wide enough to insert the burger and eventually manage to bite off a piece. "So," I say after I've swallowed, "How's everybody else?"

"Well, Mel and Linds decided they wanted another baby but Brian refused because Mel was going to carry it. So then they decided to ask Michael, so he donated the sperm, although between you and me, I heard he had a lot of trouble performing. So now Mel's pregnant and Michael's acting like a mother hen, and Linds…"

I had to fucking ask, didn't I?

TBC


	29. Chapter 29

VERSE TWO. CHAPTER NINE

BRIAN

I lounge on the bed smoking a joint, watching Justin pack his shit. There's surprisingly little; apart from the computer - which is sitting on the table boxed up ready to take down to the Jeep – and his portfolio with his sketches, he isn't taking much more than he originally brought.

"Don't forget your meds this time," I tell him.

"Already got them." He crams shirts into his duffel bag and I wince.

I'm trying to feel upbeat about the whole situation. I keep telling myself that it's not like it was before; this time I know where he is and I can keep an eye on him, even if only from a distance. And he seems happier now that he's got his own place; or rather, he doesn't seem quite so jumpy around me now that he knows he's got an out.

I wish to fuck I knew what he was thinking. I've been watching for any hint of regret or sadness about leaving the one place where he'd always wanted to be, but all I've been able to detect is relief. But then I guess he left here, and me, months ago. All he's doing now is taking his things.

I suppose if I'm honest – and that's what this whole trip is about, right? – I'm relieved that he's going, too. Because the last few days waiting for the lease to be finalised and for Justin's royalties to be transferred have been fucking murder.

After that first night he was adamant about sleeping on the couch and I knew if I tried to push it he'd go to Deb until everything went through. He stayed out of my way as much as possible – he'd be out when I got home from work and wouldn't get home until after I was in bed. I never asked him where he'd been, though it killed me not knowing. I felt I didn't have the right.

But even so, he was still around. And that was … difficult.

I take a hit, holding the smoke in my lungs for as long as I can before exhaling. It's good shit. Mellow. That's what I need to be right now – mellow.

There's so much that's different about Justin, and I'm not altogether sure how much is part of this new 'improved' model and how much was already there but I'd simply never noticed.

We're both looking at each other with different eyes now.

Before, he was infatuated with me; and maybe I got so used to always seeing him that way I never saw anything else. His infatuation was part of him; like his smile, his talent, his enthusiasm. It would always be there. Now, unmasked, I'm seeing him clearly.

In some ways he's definitely regressed: many of his post-bashing symptoms have resurfaced, albeit in a less severe form. There's been no sign of nightmares since he came back, but his aversion to being touched is obvious. His tremor's worse. That cautious, closed look is back in his eyes when he's around people, and he's not speaking much. In fact, he hardly ever initiates conversation at all.

I think the most unsettling thing, though, is the way his moods swing from apologetic remorse to resentful, in-your-face aggression. In between he's just…silent. I don't know which is worse. Before he left I'd simply have assumed he was feeling sorry for himself and I'd have told him to get the fuck over it. But this is something different. There's something black and rotten in my boy's soul now, and it's killing the Sunshine.

What's killing _me_ is that I helped put it there.

And yet. He has an independence now that was missing before – a strength of will that suits him. Before, his determination to get his own way was often just a bratty show of stubbornness, and I could usually fuck him into a more co-operative state of mind. Now he's making his own decisions and my opinions – or anyone else's – mean jack shit to him. In some ways the kid has come back a man. Or maybe – and this is what's worrying me – it's that he honestly doesn't think anyone cares what he does.

But he's still Justin, and the fact that he's around again is playing havoc with my testosterone. My brain might have reluctantly accepted that he's off limits, but there's no persuading my body of that fact. Especially when he lights up those totally hot roll-ups and I find myself longing to suck the liquorice from his lips. And his fucking hair is driving me nuts – I want to grab fistfuls of it, twine it round my fingers, fucking bite it … shit, Kinney, stop thinking about that or you'll have to go and lock yourself in the bathroom to jerk off.

Again.

Despite all my good intentions, having him so tantalisingly close and yet so utterly unattainable is sheer fucking torture. I guess all in all, it's probably best to have temptation out of the way, at least for a while.

Until I can figure what the fuck to do.

* * *

"How many times do you think we've slept in this bed?" He crams the last pairs of socks into his pack and closes the drawer.

I blink a little, surprised by both the question and his asking it. It's something I've considered a few times recently myself. "I don't know. It's got to be hundreds."

He's silent for a while, struggling to do up the zipper on the over-stuffed bag. "I bet it's seen some action since I left." His voice is neutral.

I stub out my joint and lean over to put the ashtray back on the nightstand before replying. "None."

Justin glances at me; then he laughs. "Like I'd believe that."

"It's true," I insist, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and sitting up. "I've brought nobody back since…" my voice tails off.

"Since Ethan," Justin finishes for me. He's still laughing. "And don't tell me he was so bad he put you off for life, because you looked like you were having a pretty good time from where_ I_ was standing."

Ouch. I turn towards him. "Justin, there's something you need to know. I've been seeing someone."

Well, that wiped the smile off his face. His eyes widen, and he can't disguise his shock before he looks down. I think perhaps there might have been something like dismay in his expression, too, or maybe I just hope there is. But he recovers himself well, and there's no trace of emotion in his tone as he says quietly, "You should have told me – I'd have stayed somewhere else." He chews a thumbnail. "Is it anyone I know?"

"What? Fuck, Justin, I don't mean like that. Jesus. It took me thirty years to find you, you think I'm going to replace you in a few _months?" _It's such a ridiculous idea I don't know whether to be pissed or laugh.

He says nothing; his head's down, his hair veiling his face; I want to grab him and make him look at me so that I can _see_ his reaction to that little statement, or his lack of reaction or whatever the fuck he's feeling, but I don't.

"What I'm trying to tell you in my usual oblique way is that I've been talking to a therapist."

He's looking at me now. Gaping, in fact. "You mean … you mean you're seeing a _shrink?"_

I shrug. "I'm not making appointments. More like we're having informal chats. It's a guy I used to talk to sometimes, after you were bashed. When you wouldn't let anyone touch you."

"You talked to a shrink about me?"

"I didn't know how to help you. And you refused to talk to anybody about it."

He shoves me hard in the chest. "You fucking _hypocrite! _You were the one who kept telling me to forget about it, not to think about it!You said therapy was all _bullshit_, and yet you have the _fucking_ nerve to discuss me with a total fucking stranger … or what, was he just a random trick who happened to be a shrink?"

Yeah, that was basically the way it was.

"Justin, this isn't about you. Not everything is." Just most things. "This is about me, about _my_ issues. After you disappeared, things kind of came to a head … I had to take time off work because I was a fucking-fall down mess. And it had to stop. I had to start to deal with my own crap instead of just spreading it around and letting it stink. After all, I've got a son now. I don't want Gus to grow up feeling about me the same way I did about my old man." I smile at him. "So I've been trying to find a way not to be an asshole all the time. Or not so much of an asshole, anyway. And a man has to know when to ask for help."

I watch the anger slowly seep out of his eyes to be replaced by … what? Confusion? Doubt? Nothing? Please God, don't let it be nothing.

TBC


	30. Chapter 30

VERSE TWO Chapter Ten

JUSTIN

"So, have you decided what you're going do … about going back to college?" Daph asks, blowing out a stream of smoke as she hands me the joint."

"I've been thinking it about it."

"Well, it just seems to me a waste, otherwise. You worked so fucking hard to get there in the first place, and you know it'll be really difficult to get a decent job if you don't graduate." She picks a slice of pepperoni from the last wedge of pizza and nibbles it.

"I know. It's just that it was hard enough in the beginning, with my hand and everything. I don't want to be the subject of everyone's gossip again."

"I thought you liked being the centre of attention," she grins, poking me in the ribs.

"Not any more," I tell her, taking a last hit from the joint and reaching over to stub it out. A little clump of ash falls off on the way, scoring a direct hit on my wine, and I think, fuck, why does that always happen? "Anyway," I go on, watching the grey blob sink into the depths and form a small sludgy puddle at the bottom of the glass, "I have to decide what to do about _Rage _– whether we're going to do another issue or not." I haven't spoken to Michael yet; that's one confrontation I've definitely been putting off.

We're lounged on my new bed-settee, watching some game show crap on my old TV that Mom had brought over, together with a few bits and pieces – microwave, DVD player, crockery, a rug, my old chest of drawers. A foldaway table for the computer, and a couple of kitchen chairs. Home.

Daph's my first, and hopefully only, visitor; although I guess my Mom will keep a close eye on me, just to make sure I haven't pulled another disappearing act. Brian's the only other one who knows the address, and judging by the look of disgust on his face when he helped me carry the computer up, he won't be in any hurry to come back. Which is just as well.

But Daph; I don't mind her being here, as long as she doesn't get too huggy-kissy. She just chatters on and doesn't seem to expect too much input from me – which is fine, because I can sit and listen to her stories about college and her flat-mates, and all I need to do is nod and smile in the right places. I've got used to being alone now. I've become accustomed to silences.

"You're not listening!" She's kicking at my leg, and I realise I've missed a question.

"Sorry, Daph, what did you say?"

"I said, when are you coming out for a drink with me? We haven't been out together in like forever!"

I shrug. "I've got out of the habit of clubbing, I guess."

She stares at me. "Hello, you're nineteen, not fucking ninety. Jesus, Justin!"

I'm telling half the truth. I haven't been to a night-club since I left Pittsburgh. And now? I really don't want to. Mainly because I don't want to see Brian sucking and fucking: I know I should be strong enough by now not to let that bother me, but I'm not. The very thought of seeing him, or even hearing about his latest conquests, makes my palms go clammy and my stomach give a queasy little lurch that's almost physical pain. Which really rules out going just about everywhere – the Diner, Woody's, Babylon – all of Liberty Avenue. All of my previous life.

Besides, I know that he'll only assume I'm back to my old ways, and take it as a sign that I'm stalking him again … that I'm the same sad, besotted little twink masochistic enough to take any amount of pain as long as he throws the occasional crumb of comfort my way. Like some kicked puppy still wagging it's tail and doing it's best to please, hoping it might still earn a place at it's master's heels.

I realise Daph's watching me, her face suddenly grave. "You've really changed, you know."

"Well, that's probably a good thing, because nothing else around here seems to have."

"Brian has," she says quietly.

Fuck. I don't want to go here. "Brian will never change," I correct her. "And I never wanted him to."

But Daph's not letting go. "While you were gone, he really went to pieces, Justin. Everyone thought he'd had a break-down or something. Michael kept having shit-fits, he thought he was going to OD or something. But then … it was like he pulled himself together. I've heard he's cut right down on everything … the booze, the drugs, even the tricking."

"Yeah, he said something about it." I keep my voice casual. "He's doing it for Gus. I'm glad - Gus is a great kid. And I know Brian loves him. And of course it's good that he's finally started taking better care of himself."

Daphne snorts. "Is that what you think? It's just because of Gus?"

"Daph, I don't want to talk about Brian. I'm trying to not even _think_ about Brian. That's all past news … I'm moving on with my life; so is he. That's the way it should be."

"Justin …"

"Look, I know what Brian's doing. He doesn't want me running round in the big bad world by myself getting hurt; he wants me to stay in the Pitts so he can keep an eye on me. So he's pulling the same shit he has with Michael all these years … trying to give me enough hope to keep me hanging around."

She goggles at me. "What, you're telling me you don't want to be with him anymore?"

"I never was _with_ him. Only in my dreams … like he told me that first morning. And I can't afford to live in a dream anymore. It hurts too much when I wake up."

Daph fiddles uncomfortably with her glass. "So you're just going to avoid him for the rest of your life?"

"It's the only thing I _can_ do." I pick up the wine bottle and top up her drink. "Otherwise we'll just keep going round and round in the same fucking loop. Brian showed me what he wanted, and it wasn't me. Maybe one day we can be friends, like him and Mikey. But that's never going to happen until I get my shit together: until I stop being his little fuck-trophy. And in that case, I have to be the one to make the break … because he never will."

"Is that why you got the tattoo?" Daph asks. "_Resist_ Brian?"

"Among other things. Just in case I start forgetting."

Daph shudders. "I bet it really hurt."

"Not nearly as much as the nipple ring," I tell her, laughing.

******************

BRIAN

"So what's Justin's place like?" Mikey asks, popping the caps on our beers.

"A fucking dump," I tell him, shovelling noodles into my mouth.

"Cockroaches?" Mikey shudders.

"More like rats. Two legged ones. And the place has no security."

"Have you seen him since he moved out?" Mikey asks, helping himself to some king prawn.

"Nope. He hasn't seen anyone, except Daphne." I know this because Daphne herself told me, sitting nervously in my office, saying agitatedly that something was _wrong_, that Justin had changed. That she was worried - worried enough to be willing to play the informant against her best friend by promising to call me if his she felt his health or emotional state deteriorated. I was surprised that he'd volunteered the information about what he'd been doing in Baltimore, but more than relieved that he can still trust someone that much. And it's great that he's at least considering going back to college.

"So I want you to talk to him about the next issue of _Rage,_" I tell Mikey.

"Sure," he nods vigorously. "It's not like I couldn't do with the money. But he hasn't exactly come hustling over to bang on my door to say hi, so I guess he isn't too eager to see me."

"Don't take it personally," I tell him. "He's avoiding everyone like the fucking plague. I never thought I'd say this, Mikey, but I don't have a clue what to make of him anymore."

"Ma said he seemed different. Quieter, or something."

"He doesn't laugh anymore. At least, not the way he used to." And you know what? That's what hurts most; remembering that bright, brash, ballsy kid who didn't know how to take _no_ for an answer; the kid who could light up any room just by walking into it.

Michael looks at me seriously. "Have you tried telling him how you feel?"

"You've got to be kidding." I push the half empty carton of noodles over to him: suddenly I seem to have lost my appetite. "He's jumps a mile every time I speak to him. Even after he was bashed, when he was scared of every fucking thing he came across, he was never scared of _me_. He always trusted me … was happy around me." I shake my head. "Now, he just wants to get the fuck away from me, as far and as fast as he can. The last thing he needs is me putting that kind of pressure on him. Besides, he wouldn't believe me. He'd think it was just me bull-shitting him, trying to get into his pants again."

"Then what are you going to do?"

I shrug. "So far, the best I can come up with is to let him settle. Get his life back to some kind of normalcy. Maybe in time he'll be more approachable ... maybe he'll let me talk to him. Maybe he'll trust me."

Mikey raises his eyebrows. "That's an awful lot of _maybes_, Brian."

"I know. What the fuck else can I do?" And truthfully, I'm willing to wait as long as I have to. That's only fair. I made Justin wait long enough.

I just wish I could be sure there was something to wait for.

"So where has he been all this time? What's he been doing?"

I take a swig of beer. "Working, I guess." I don't know how much Justin has said to anyone else about how he's been supporting himself, so I think the less information the better. Especially where Mikey's concerned.

"Ma said Jennifer told her you found out where he was and went to get him"

Okay, a _little_ more information required. "Yeah. An old friend of mine ran into Justin in Baltimore. He knew he'd gone missing, so he contacted me."

"So I guess Justin wasn't that enthusiastic about coming home?"

"Let's say he took some persuading." I turn to face Mikey. "Which is why I don't want you or your Mom or anybody else hounding him. I mean it, Michael. He's this close to up and running again. I don't want him spooked anymore than he already is."

Michael looks hurt. "Are you saying you think my family can't be tactful?"

"Sorry, Mikey, but that's one description I can say with total honesty I have _never_ applied to the Novotnys. Nosy, interfering, loud, irritating - yes. Tactful, never."

He punches my arm. "Fuck you, asshole," he huffs, spraying fragments of noodles. He wipes them up with a napkin. Then he looks at me with his _Brian, I'm being serious _expression. "Are you sure you know what you're doing … about Justin, I mean? Because it wouldn't be fair, otherwise. Yeah, I was pissed with him about the fiddler, and about running off and making you and Ma worry yourselves sick about him. But if you're just stringing him along … I guess I'm asking if it wouldn't be kinder in the long run to let him go?"

"Like I should have with you?"

Michael ducks his head sheepishly. "My unrequited crush," he smiles. "I guess that's why I could never take Justin seriously. I saw too much of myself in him."

"Except his crush was requited regularly," I smirk back at him. I put my arm round his shoulders. "Michael, I can't promise you or him that I won't fuck up again. Chances are I will. I can't promise monogamy because I don't know that I would want to, even if it were possible for me. And I can't promise him marriage because I simply don't fucking believe in it. All I know is, that I spent the most miserable four months of my entire life without him … and that I wanted him back badly enough to be willing to do anything reasonable to achieve it. Even if that meant taking a good look at myself, and admitting that I didn't altogether like what I was seeing. And trying to change it."

"Then I guess that's good enough for me," Mikey says with a smile. Then it fades. "Let's just hope it's enough for Justin," he adds sombrely.

TBC


	31. Chapter 31

VERSE TWO Chapter Eleven

JUSTIN

I stand outside Red Cape Comics, staring at the huge _Rage Is Here _poster which dominates the window. Wow. It's true; we're really in print. I'm a published artist. I feel a little surge of pride that I've finally achieved something, even if it is only as the artist of a comic book. It's given me the means to independence, and if Michael's still willing to work with me then the sales from a second issue will pay the rent for a couple more months and I'll have a little more breathing space. If. No matter what Brian said, I can't believe that Michael will forgive me for cheating with Ethan – I know better than anyone how unforgiving he is where Brian is concerned. Most likely he'll throw my ass out as soon as he sees me.

I find myself just wanting to turn around and forget the whole idea.

But that's stupid. Since when have I been afraid of what Michael says? I give myself a shake and reach determinedly for the door handle.

Michael's rearranging his _Batman_ section and looks up with a smile when the bell dings. When he sees me standing inside the door his face changes; I can see surprise and unease, quickly masked by a welcoming grin. "Hey," he says, walking over. For an uncomfortable moment I think he's going to hug me, but to my relief he just stands there. "You're looking well."

"Your Mom thinks I'm too skinny."

Michael shifts nervously from foot to foot. "Well, you know her," he says, still smiling at me. "So … how are things?"

"Good," I tell him.

"And the new place?"

"Good, too."

"Well, if you need any help decorating or moving stuff or shit, just shout. Ben and I will be happy to lend a hand."

It's weird. Michael and I had never been friends; at first he was simply too fucking jealous and he'd taken every opportunity to belittle me, so I'd get my own back by teasing him about me and Brian and pissing him off. Of course, looking back now I can concede his point: I was pretty much as immature and pathetic as he believed. But after Ben had come into his life and we'd started working on _Rage_ together, we'd got a little more comfortable. Now it feels like we're skirting round each other again. I guess he's just trying to hide how pissed at me he is – being Michael, he's not doing a very good job.

I wonder when he'll start reaming me out about Brian.

"Um, Michael … it's about _Rage_. I can't believe it's sold so well."

"It's fucking amazing, isn't it?" he beams, not having to fake pleasure this time.

"So, I was wondering … whether you'd want to try for another issue. Unless you wouldn't want to work with me any more. In which case, that's fine, I'd understand …"

"No, no! That'd be fucking great, Justin! I've got, like, _shitloads_ of ideas for new stories," he exclaims enthusiastically, trying to take my arm; I move a quick step away, hoping it looks accidental. His hand drops to his side.

"Okay, then," I say, smiling back at him, relieved. I've made a decision, and at least I know that doing the artwork for _Rage_ is still within my capabilities. "So which nights are best to get together?"

Michael's giving me one of those looks where you can just see he's struggling to contain something. And losing. "It's just … I think there's something you ought to know, before you make up your mind about us working together. Before you hear it from someone else." He takes a deep breath. "It was me who told Brian about you and Ethan."

Oh. Well, I can hardly be surprised by that, can I? The loyal best friend doing what he thought was best. "How did you find out?" I ask.

"I saw the two of you kissing. On the _street!_" He can't hide the note of outrage in his voice, but he covers it quickly. "But I should have spoken to you first. And I'm sorry."

"You were looking out for Brian," I say. "It doesn't matter. He would have found out sooner or later, anyway."

Michael's jaw drops. "You're not angry?"

I wonder if that's what he was hoping; that I'd storm off and he'd get rid of me _that_ way. But then I reason that if he didn't want to work with me, he'd have just told me to fuck off in the first place. He probably needs the extra income, too.

"Why should I be?" I shrug. "You were right, after all. About Brian. It was me who couldn't see it. So really I should thank you for pushing _me _off a cliff this time. Otherwise I'd still be running round after Brian making a fucking twat of myself."

Michael's mouth opens and closes silently for a moment, like a stranded fish; his eyes are little popped, too. Eventually he finds his voice. "You … you've got it all wrong," he stammers. "Brian loves you."

I feel my stomach start to churn. He can't be saying this, not Michael. "Brian loves lots of people. And yes, I know he loves me too, even if he never said it. He showed me all the time, every day: just like he does you. By taking care of you … being there when you need him. But the kind of love I believed in … the kind I thought Brian felt for _me_ … well, that was just a stupid little schoolboy ideal. Brian tried to make me understand, to stop me getting hurt … it wasn't his fault I was walking around in my own little teen fantasy."

"No," Michael protests, and this time he grabs my arm before I can move away. "Brian _loves_ you … he _fucking_ told me himself. Don't you know how big a deal that is for him?"

I shake off his hand. I can feel my heart beginning to thump uncomfortably fast. "What the fuck is this?" I demand. "Have I fallen into some Alternative Universe or something? You're trying to persuade me that Brian loves me? Loves _me_?" I repeat, feeling hysterical laughter starting to bubble up. This is just fucking insane. "So, when did he make this earth-shattering declaration? How many drinks had he had?"

Michael's eyes start to flash. "None," he snaps. "And it was just the other night, when he said he wanted me to talk to you about working on_ Rage_ again …" His voice trails off.

Brian. I should have known. Pulling the fucking strings again, hatching his Machiavellian plots. And Michael helping him out, of course; throwing poor little Justin a bone. Fixing him. I feel cold fury wrapping itself around my chest, constricting my breathing.

"Fuck you, Michael." I can hardly say the words. _"Fuck. You." _I stride to the door, then turn back to him. "Tell Brian I don't need him, I don't need _Rage,_ and I certainly don't need you."

I snatch the door open and nearly run into Ben. I hear his surprised "Whoa," as I push past him without speaking.

I guess it's back to college after all.

* * *

"What was all that about?" Ben asks, his concerned gaze shooting from Justin's receding back to Michael's stricken face.

"Ben, I have just fucked up so bad." Michael shakes his head. "I wasn't supposed to say anything. Boy, Brian is going to be so pissed."

TBC


	32. Chapter 32

VERSE TWO Chapter Twelve

JUSTIN

September. The summer's nearly over, the new college year has started, and I'm back again. I was surprised how easy it was to be re-admitted; I was sure the Dean would have taken some convincing, especially since he'd been in two minds about accepting me in the first place. But he'd been remarkably understanding; a little too much so, in fact. I wonder if any of the other students would have been given so much grace; perhaps having been bashed and physically impaired, not to mention psychologically fucked-up, has it's advantages after all.

I wonder if my classmates resent me for it.

Not that I really care: I've always been a loner, even when I was a kid. I never seemed to have anything in common with the other children – not butch enough for the guys, too butch for the girls, I guess. I was only ever close to Daph. Now she's at Carnegie Melon I don't even have her company.

I don't mind. I keep myself pretty much to myself. The others in my class are okay, I suppose; after all, they're all aspiring artists, we all share the same passions, the same dreams; perhaps in another life I'd even have been friends with some of them. But now, sitting in the canteen listening to their chatter over lunch, analysing and criticising this or that upcoming new talent, I'd find myself thinking how pretentious they are, how banal. How immature.

I'd felt it before, with Ethan's friends. Even with Ethan himself, at times; although I'd always convinced myself that his 'starving artiste' pose was genuine – not to mention, God help me, _romantic_ – but really, what had he ever done? He'd come from a close knit, comfortable family who had always idolised his talent. He played on street corners and lived in a garret because it suited his self-image, not because he had to. And the others are the same; they make these grand statements about _art_ and_ life_ and _suffering_, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself pointing out to the bunch of pretentious assholes that, since they have no experience whatsoever of any of those concepts, who the fuck cares what they think? I've seen more, and done more, and experienced more in the last two years than they probably ever will in the whole of their predictable, safe, prosaic lives.

So I get through my classes as best I can, because it's not easy. I haven't drawn for six months, and it's hard getting the muscles in my gimp hand to co-operate again; although now I'm back on the anti-spasmodics at least the tremors are more under control. But there are many nights I spend lying on my lumpy bed settee with my hand cramping painfully, longing for sleep which I know isn't going to come.

Because I'm tired all the time now; I have an evening job as a waiter in a restaurant a couple of blocks from my flat, and while the work isn't as strenuous as the Diner, it seems to wear me out more. Maybe it's because working the Diner was fun; more like a family business. There was always laughter, flirting, gossip; the restaurant's just full of straight strangers, and although the pay's better, the tips are for shit. And my boss is a fat, middle-aged despot with a fat, miserable wife he never stops bitching about, and who has a healthy dislike of lazy, spoilt, doped-out college kids – which is what he assumes me to be. The fact that I'm gay doesn't help much, either.

But I can pay the rent, which is all that really matters, even if there's not much left over to buy food. If it weren't for the fact that I get a free meal at the restaurant, some days I wouldn't eat at all. I still have a little of my _Rage_ money left, but I'm hanging on to that for emergencies and to buy art supplies for college.

And every morning I look in the mirror and tell myself I'm _doing_ it … I'm independent, living my own life, making my own way in the world.

Resist. One day things will improve.

* * *

I've just finished a really busy shift, and as I walk out of the restaurant the only thing on my mind is bed and sleep. That's when I see the Jeep parked down the street and a tall, familiar figure lounging against it.

Shit.

For a moment I think about turning round and walking away, but it's too late; Brian's spotted me, and he straightens up and takes a few steps towards me. His face is shadowed and unreadable. "Hey," he says.

I walk up to him. "Brian."

He drops the cigarette he's been smoking and grinds out the stub under his boot. "Can I talk to you?" he asks quietly.

"Bad time," I tell him. "I've just had a shit night and all I want is to go home. Besides, there's nothing to talk about." I try to step around him, but he blocks me.

"I'll give you a lift, then."

"It's not far, I can walk it."

He glances up and down the dark street. "I'd rather you didn't."

"I do it most nights," I shrug. "Why is this any different?"

"Justin." He takes hold of my sleeve. "I need to ask you a favour."

"Huh?"

His lips twist in amusement. "Which word didn't you understand?"

"Sorry, I thought I heard you say you wanted a favour."

His smile is suddenly sweet. "You did. I do."

I'm not buying it. Brian Kinney asking _me_ for something? When Hell freezes over. I step away from him and fold my arms. "Okay. Tell me what it is and I'll say whether I'll do it or not."

He shakes his head. "We can't talk here. Can we go a bar or something?"

"I told you, I want to go home. I'm tired."

"Then let me go with you." He must see the reluctance on my face because his smile fades. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "You still don't trust me? I promise I'm not planning to try anything; I really do need to talk you. It's for someone else, not me, Justin."

That gets my attention: that I_ can_ believe. I immediately think of Gus, or maybe Lindsey. Or Deb. It must be important for him to have tracked me down. "Okay," I say slowly. "I'll give you ten minutes."

Brian nods brusquely and turns back to the Jeep. I climb in the passenger side and buckle my seat belt, and we drive the two blocks home in silence. Brian finds a place to park, and I get out and wait while he locks the car. Then I lead the way up to my flat. He plods up the six flights of stairs behind me, grousing. "Did you have to get a place on the top floor?"

"It's got the best light."

"Then at least you could have found somewhere with a fucking elevator."

I smile.

At last we reach my floor, and Brian stands breathing heavily behind me while I unlock the door. When I snap the lights on, he walks past me and stands looking around. Then he moves over to the large trestle table I've installed, where I've been working on my latest college assignment. He studies it for a moment, then turns to me with a wide smile. "You're painting," he says. "I'm really fucking glad, Justin."

"Yeah, well, now I don't have to worry about getting paint on the floor."

"No, I guess not." He looks back down at the canvas. "It's good."

I can't help but feel a happy little glow of pleasure. Where my art's concerned, Brian's approval has always meant more to me than my professor's, more than Linds', more than anyone's. But I remind myself he's not here for a cosy chat about my affairs, so I sit down on the settee. "I thought you wanted to ask me something."

Brian nods. Instead of coming to sit beside me, he pulls over one of my chairs and seats himself facing me. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "I want to ask you to go back to work on _Rage._"

"What?" I explode. I can't believe him. "Fuck, Brian, I already gave Michael the answer to that! I don't need _Rage. _I'm doing fine without it."

Brian's gaze sweeps around him. "Yeah," he replies neutrally. "I can see that."

"I let you up here because I thought only some kind of disaster would have made you come to me for help. I didn't know you just wanted to play fucking mind games. And if that's the big favour you want, then I'm happy to disappoint you. And you can leave now." I stomp over to the door and fling it open.

Brian doesn't get up. "I told you, it isn't for me," he says quietly. "It's for Michael."

"Oh really. And why should I want to do something for him?"

"Because he's in trouble, Justin. Financial trouble." He laces his fingers together. "He had to close the store for a while to look after Ben."

"Ben's been sick again?" Michael might annoy the shit out of me sometimes, but what I'd seen of Ben I'd liked. And I think he might have liked me too; he'd always been supportive in his quiet way. I'd be really sorry if something happened to him.

"Nothing too serious, just flu; but it brought his viral load up again, and it took a while for him to shake it off. Mikey had to stay at home to take care of him. And the shop's not been doing so well recently. The extra income from another _Rage_ would really take the pressure off them."

I close the door slowly and come back to the settee. I sit down again and study Brian's face, and he sits and lets me: not putting up his walls, or smirking, or doing anything other than to let me see him, the way he used to sometimes after I was bashed; the way he never did before then and has never done since. And I realise that, of course, he'd do this for Michael; he'd swallow his pride and ask even _me_ a favour.

"I don't know," I hear myself saying. "I don't have much spare time."

"But if you had the income from _Rage_, then you wouldn't have to spend so much time waiting tables, would you?" he asks reasonably.

Good point. And God knows, the less time I have to spend with my asshole homophobic boss the better. Still… "I'll think about it," I tell him. "I'm not promising anything."

"That's all I ask." Brian stands up, and for a moment I think he's going to shake my hand or something, but instead he leans forward and kisses me on the cheek, simply, like a friend would. "Thank you," he whispers.

And then he walks to the door, opens it, turns; "Take care of yourself, Justin," he says. Then he's gone.

******************

BRIAN

I hurry down the dank, dismal stairway trying to ignore the smell of mould and cat piss. Christ, it turns my stomach to think of him shutting himself away in this fucking hovel. I know that the kid has never been into possessions and image, but on the other hand he's always been used to comfort and I know that living this way can't be easy for him. That flat is cold now, so God knows what it's going to be like when the winter comes. Christ, he can hardly afford to eat, so I'm sure he can't afford heating. And meanwhile he's having to put up with his prick of a boss riding him ragged at that shit-hole restaurant. Having to walk home in the dark, risking his safety because he hasn't got the fare for a fucking cab.

When Daph told me that Justin was barely managing to feed himself, I used to lie in bed thinking up crazy schemes to try to get money to him – at one point I was even considering inventing a fictional relative who could die and leave him an inheritance. Like he'd be stupid enough to believe that. And the little twat would be more likely to starve to death, or die of pneumonia or some fucking thing, than to accept help from _me_. No, he's determined to do this his way, all alone; and while I might rage inwardly at his stubbornness I also can't help but admire his refusal to lean on anybody else, to stand on his own feet no matter what the cost. In many ways, he's more like me than I care to think. In the end, all I could realistically come up with was to somehow persuade him to work with Mikey again; which is why I ended up … exaggerating a little. Not lying, no; just massaging the truth some. The comic shop hasn't been doing as well as Mikey hoped, and he and the professor are going through a few problems, to put it mildly. The extra money would certainly help them.

So I haven't really lied.

And anyway, what the fuck else am I supposed to do? Stand back and let the boy be hungry and cold, lose more weight, walk around with those fucking shadows under his eyes – while I'm warm and fed, with more money than I know what to do with? Fat fucking chance. And Michael will keep up his end of the story, and not screw up this time, or I'll stuff his Captain Astro doll stuffed so far up his ass he won't find it again with both hands and a flashlight. Seriously.

But Justin is painting! Not just designing on his computer, or even sketching, but really painting! How fucking great is that? Sometimes the kid's courage and resilience simply astound me. I wish I could find a way to tell him how proud he makes me.

I want him back so badly, I wonder sometimes if it's clouding my judgement; while I'm lying alone in my cold bed, missing him so much that I feel I can't stand another night without him, that's when I start worrying that I'm fooling myself. That he's better off without me. That sooner or later another fiddler's going to show up and sweep him away, and make him laugh and bring the Sunshine back, and I'll just become another part of his past – an experience he won't forget, perhaps, but also one that he doesn't regret leaving behind.

Yet my heart tells me otherwise. I _know_ I can make him happy now – maybe not in a sappy, romantic happy-ever-after bullshit fantasy - but in a way that's real, that's honest, that can survive whatever disasters I don't doubt are still lurking round the corner waiting for us. If I can only get him to give me another chance.

Daph says she's never seen another a guy at his place, and he never mentions anyone. I assume he finds guys when he has to, when the physical urge simply gets too great to ignore; the same way that I have for a few months now. Because, what's the point? I'm Brian fucking Kinney and I don't do second best … and unfortunately for me, that's what they all are.

I thought I was so smart, having my own personally customised twink trained from day one to service me … someone who knew all my secret little peccadilloes, who could find all my pleasure points with his eyes closed. Someone whose lips and fingers could explore the places I'd never given anyone else the time or opportunity to discover.

It never occurred to me until too late that, having carved out a Justin-shaped hole in my life, then no other person would be able to fill it again. I'd spent two futile years trying to stretch or squash another piece to fit the gap in that particular jigsaw, only to finally figure out that such a piece simply didn't exist. To belatedly realise that the mould was smashed; that Justin was unique.

And that a simple, chaste kiss on Justin's cheek could mean more to me than fucking any hot trick at Babylon.

I've never given up on something if I wanted it badly enough. And all the time that there isn't anyone else in his life, then I still have to believe there's hope. Hope for us. And that's what I'm clinging to.

TBC


	33. Chapter 33

VERSE TWO Chapter Thirteen

BRIAN

When a knock comes on the Loft door my first thought is that it's Mikey. But when I slide it back I see Deb standing there, snapping her gum and smiling at me, clasping a large plastic container.

"Gonna let me in?" she asks brightly. "Or am I disturbing anything?"

I shake my head and usher her in, and she hands me the Tupperware. "Tuna casserole. Your favourite."

I lift the lid and peer at the goo suspiciously. "Since when?"

"Since always!" Deb looks injured. "Since you were a kid!"

I refrain from pointing out that when I was a kid, a square meal of _horse_ casserole would have been welcome. Anything hot and filling fitted the bill; taste didn't really come into it. Then I think, what the hell. Good Columbian always gives me the munchies. I go and dig out a couple of forks.

Deb's standing by the couch, unwinding her scarf, peering around as if expecting to find a random trick secreted somewhere. Then she seats herself and reaches for the half-smoked joint lying in the ashtray on the coffee table.

"Deb!" I plaster on a shocked expression. "What would Mikey say?"

She smirks at me, holding the smoke deep in her lungs. Then she begins to cough violently and hands the joint back to me. "Jesus, that shit's strong!"

I snigger. "Only the best," I say, taking a hit myself. "I didn't know you indulged."

"I'll have you know I was indulging before you and Michael were born. It's just been a while, is all." She peels the lid off the Tupperware, picks up a fork and helps herself to the tuna.

I take the other fork and try a tentative taste. Surprisingly it isn't as bad as I remembered – or the Columbian's even stronger than I thought. "So," I say, taking another mouthful, "to what do I owe the honour of this visit?"

Deb's face becomes serious. "How's he doing?"

There's no need to ask who she means. "Better, Daph says. At least he's got some food in the place now."

"Good. I know Jennifer was worried sick about how much weight he'd lost. I just wish he'd come back to work at the Diner; I would have made sure he ate."

I shrug. "Wasn't ever going to happen, Deb. Justin's trying to look forward, not backward. And I think he just feels uncomfortable around everyone."

She shakes her head. "Doesn't he realise we're his family? Did he really think we'd turn him away?"

"He doesn't trust himself at the moment. If he doubts his own judgement, how can he trust anyone else?" I sigh. "I fucked him up too badly."

Deb looks at me compassionately. "Not just you, Honey."

"No, I was just the proverbial last straw." I reach for my stash and start rolling another joint. Deb pokes around in the casserole, spears a piece of tuna and chews it.

"So," she says after a moment, "what's the plan?"

I lick the cigarette papers and carefully seal down the edge of the joint. I indicate the Loft. "I guess this is about as far as I've got."

"What, sitting here on your own getting stoned?"

"Well, it beats going out, drinking myself into a stupor and fucking the first ass to walk past," I tell her, carefully inserting the roach. "And I'm not exactly alone, am I?" I light up and inhale deeply.

She snorts. "You know what I mean. You hiding in your Loft, Sunshine in his."

I let out a thin stream of smoke, then pass her the joint. "Don't call him that to his face. He's decided it doesn't exactly suit his personality."

"Sunshine he was, Sunshine he'll always be," Debbie insists, taking a hit, successfully this time. "And don't change the fucking subject. What are you going to do about him?"

"I'm hoping to do what I do best; to let my actions speak for me. To prove to him, through my exemplary behaviour, that I'm no longer the incorrigible asshole I once was."

"Far be it from me to rain on your parade, but doesn't that scenario mean that Justin has to actually be present to witness your moral transformation?" Deb passes me the joint back. "I mean, kiddo, everybody else might have noticed that you're not acting like the Stud of Liberty Avenue anymore, but it's kind of difficult to get that across to Justin when he doesn't ever see you. Or anyone else." She leans forward and puts her hand on my knee. "You're going to have to _talk_ to him."

As usual, Deb's gone straight to the heart of the problem. And she's right, as she is most times; because this plan isn't fucking working. Okay, Justin's got an income now and his situation isn't as dire as it was; but he and I may as well be living on opposite sides of the country for all the contact we have. I'd hoped that once he'd broken the ice with Michael he might naturally gravitate back to his old haunts, but I was wrong. Michael says they meet up; work on Rage; Justin goes home. No names or numbers exchanged.

"Don't think I haven't tried, Deb. I mean, how fucking ironic is that? Me, trying to communicate with Justin; him, refusing to talk at all." I inhale the sweet smoke deeply; hold; release. "And if you really want the truth, I guess I'm scared to try again. Because if he still won't listen, then I think it might just be the end. I don't have a plan B."

Deb stares at me; then she coughs a little, shifting uneasily. "Christ, Brian. Did you just say you were afraid? Is the world fucking ending, or something?"

"Honesty is my new policy," I tell her.

Deb holds out her hand for the joint. "It always was, Honey. Even when you were being an asshole, you were an honest asshole."

I nod, picking at some more of the casserole. "Yeah, about everything except myself."

"You had your reasons, I know that better than anyone. Not that I'm saying you were always right … because I'm not … just that you had _reasons_." Deb's holding the joint delicately between her thumb and forefinger, drawing on it like a pro. She screws up her eyes. "Now, where was I? Oh, yeah; you've got to talk to Sunshine. Otherwise it's just going to go on, with both of you being alone and miserable. And I don't want any of my boys to end up that way."

"And what if he says no?" I ask softly.

"Since when do you back away from a fucking challenge?" Deb demands. "Sunshine loves you, and that isn't going to change. Just because he's scared and messed up right now doesn't mean he always will be." She smiles a little. "Brian, Honey, remember how long I've known you. I was the first one to notice how you really felt about him, even though fucking wild horses wouldn't have made you admit it. And nothing proves how much you've grown as a man more than the fact that I'm sitting here _talking_ with you about your feelings for Sunshine without your kicking me out the door quicker than you'd stick your dick up a hot guy's ass. So now you have to take the bull by the fucking horns and let _him_ know, because otherwise this," she gestures around her, "is all for nothing. And sometimes, Brian, no matter how bad you think things are, or how afraid you are, sometimes you just have to take a chance on love."

"You know what _I_ think?" I tell her, grinning. "I think you get sentimental when you're stoned. Plus, you've just bogarded my entire joint."

She glares at the dead roach in her fingers. "Shit, sorry. Guess I got carried away." Then she grins back at me. "You don't happen to have any Oreos stashed around here, do you?" she asks hopefully.

TBC


	34. Chapter 34

VERSE TWO Chapter Fourteen

JUSTIN

"So this _Juice Pig_ character … he's not really a villain?" I ask, puzzled.

"No," Michael states vehemently. "He's taking this drug to make him bigger and stronger but it's fucking up his personality … making him unpredictable and kind of dangerous, sometimes. But he's still a good guy underneath."

I wonder where he's come up with this idea. I don't ask Michael about his personal life anymore than he asks about mine, but I can still put two and two together. I've seen Ben a few times since I've been coming to Michael's to work on _Rage_ and it's obvious that he's looking even buffer than before – he's been working out a lot, according to Michael. But there's an underlying tension in him – even when he's being affectionate it's like he's really having trouble reining himself in; like he's just waiting to let go. And I've heard him snap at Michael in a way he never used to; over stupid little things that would never have bothered him before.

I think Brian's _flu_ explanation might be a little short of the mark. I think Ben's been taking steroids. I think Mikey and Ben's real problem is a case of bad old Roid Rage.

"Okay," I say, gathering up my sketches. "I'll work on them again, see what I can come up with."

Mikey smiles and nods. "Thanks, Justin." He watches as I roll up the sheets of paper and put them in my backpack. "How's Mel doing?" I ask.

He looks surprised, but pleased too. "Oh, you know Mel. She's supposed to be taking things easy but there's no getting through to her. I guess she's a kind of female Brian sometimes."

Which is, of course, why they can't be in the same room without fighting like cat and dog. "Well, give her my love when you see her. Linds too," I say, standing up, ready to leave.

As Michael rises to see me out there's a knock on the door, and when he goes to answer it I see Brian there. Well, speak of the devil. My traitorous heart does a stupid little flip-flop like it always does, and I wonder again how long it's going to take before his presence stops making me feel like a stupid kid with a crush … or if it ever will.

"Mikey," Brian says, but his eyes are on me. "Justin." His voice is soft, and he gives me a small, hesitant smile.

"Hi, Brian," I greet him casually. "I was just leaving."

"You probably ought to wait a while," he says. "It's pissing down out there." He shakes drops of water from his hair, and I look away quickly, putting on my jacket and grabbing my pack.

"I don't mind the rain," I tell him. There's no way I'm going to play gooseberry in the Brian and Michael show; I'd rather get wet. Even if I can't guarantee being able to grab the bathroom for a shower when I get home. "I've got a project I need to work on."

"Then I'll drive you. I was hoping to see you anyway; I've got a commission I need some help with."

I try not to let my irritation show; like Brian needs my help for his business – like he hasn't got his own team of artists already. I wonder what devious little plan he's cooking up now. But I don't want to get into anything with Michael looking on, all ears and eyes, so I nod reluctantly. I realise that's probably what he was counting on.

We go down to the Jeep in silence, which continues until we're driving away. I'm the one to break it. "Why didn't you tell me Ben was using steroids?"

He flicks me a quick, surprised glance. "Mikey told you?"

"No, of course not. But it wasn't difficult to work out, not with the way Ben's acting. Not to mention the amount of muscle he's put on. Oh, and of course Michael's new superhero was a pretty good pointer."

Brian's lips twitch into a smile. "You always were a clever boy."

"Not clever enough, apparently." I gaze out through the clear arcs in the windscreen where the wipers are working overtime to sweep away the driving rain. "And I'm not a boy."

He sighs. "Justin. It's a term of endearment … like'Sunshine' … or 'twat'. It's not meant to demean you in any way."

"Whatever. Anyway, what was with the 'flu' crap?"

He shrugs. "It's Mikey's business, not mine. It's up to him what he tells people." He throws me another look. "And you know how good I am at keeping secrets."

I don't answer.

"Anyway," he continues, "it's not as if you're around much, anymore. I figured if you wanted to know what was going on, you wouldn't have cut everybody dead like you have." He can't completely keep the note of accusation out of his voice.

"I haven't," I hear myself protesting, though I know it's a lie. "Things have just been kind of hectic, that's all."

"Uh huh. I know you have such a busy social schedule."

"Fuck you," I say angrily. "It's none of your business anyway."

"No." He makes a sound like a sigh. "You don't have to tell me. I gave up that right a long time ago." He turns his face towards me. "Justin, I don't want to get in a fight with you about who did what and to whom and why. Can't we get past all that?"

There it is again: _we_. That word he would never use. Why now, when it's too late; when it doesn't matter any more? But I refuse to go round on the same old track again, so I press my lips together and keep resolutely quiet until we pull up before my building. Then I dive out into the rain with a hurried "Thanks, Brian," and run for the entrance. It's not until I'm wrestling with the lock that I realise he's standing behind me, water sluicing off his hair, shoulders hunched against the wind.

"What?" he demands. "Are you just going to leave me here to get hypothermia? You could at least offer me a towel."

Eventually I manage to turn the key and he follows me up to my flat, where he stands dripping onto the floor boards while I hunt for towels. He takes off his jacket, shakes it, and hangs it on the hook behind the door: catches the towel I throw in his direction and rubs his hair vigorously.

"Coffee?" he asks.

I sigh. He's obviously not planning on leaving anytime soon. I fill the kettle and switch it on, then dig out the jar of instant from the cupboard and place it on the piece of Formica board, which serves me as a counter. I put two spoons of coffee into a mug, add sugar, and top it up with boiling water. Then I hand it to Brian.

He takes it gingerly, and I suppress a smile as I wait for the explosion. I wonder when the last time was that Brian Kinney drank instant coffee. But he holds his tongue and sits down on the nearest chair, raising his eyebrows in invitation to me. Reluctantly I take the other seat.

"How are things going with the comic?" he asks.

I shrug. "Okay. Michael's come up with some new story lines."

"Good." He seems a little distracted now; looking into his coffee, at his feet, around the flat; anywhere but at me. "And the two of you are getting on alright?"

"Sure." We are; now my relationship with Michael is purely professional, we're getting on fine.

"Good," Brian repeats. He takes an unwary gulp of his coffee and ends up coughing violently. When he recovers himself he puts the mug down on the floor. "Hot," he explains a little sheepishly.

"Sorry it's not Moroccan," I grin.

He glares at me. "I have a proposition for you," he says abruptly.

It's my turn to raise my eyebrows.

"Not like that," he huffs, his face relaxing into a smile. "The GLC have commissioned me to promote their fund-raising event and I want you to design the poster. You'll be well paid for the work."

"You working for the GLC!" I can't believe that. "You despise everyone concerned with it!"

"Not when they're paying so generously for my talents," he smirks.

"Then why don't you use your art department at Vanguard?"

"Because it's a private commission so it's not very ethical. Plus, they're not as good as you. Plus, I need it by the end of the week. Plus, you need the money."

"I'm making enough." I am; although with winter coming I could certainly do with more. But I don't want to get drawn back into Brian's world. "It's not a good idea," I tell him.

"Why? Because you might have to speak to me a couple times? Am I really so dangerous?" Brian's still smiling, but his eyes aren't.

"Brian…" I find myself rubbing my face helplessly. Why is this always so fucking hard? "It hurts, okay?" I tell him. "I know it shouldn't, and I know it's stupid, but it just … hurts," I finish lamely.

"Is that why you're avoiding everyone?" Brian asks softly.

"It's past. I have to let go." I can't look at him. "I know what you think … I'm just being a little pussy-boy. It doesn't matter."

"You have no idea what I think, Justin!" his voice rises, shaking a little as he tries to control it. "You have no idea what I do. You're never there to see."

"Brian." I stand up. I can feel my legs trembling. I _so_ don't want to do this with him. "Thank you for thinking of me, but I'm sorry I can't accept…"

"Sit down," he interrupts, "because I don't intend to go anywhere until you've heard me out." He fixes me with his eyes, and I realise that short of trying to physically throw him out the only thing I can do is let him say his piece and get it over as soon as possible. I sit down again, trying not to feel sick.

"Okay," I say as calmly as I can. "Say what you have to."

He stares at me, and suddenly he seems uncertain again. He bites his lip a little, twists his hands together; "Justin…" he begins, and then stops again. "Shit, I don't know how to start now." He takes a breath and mutters, "Fuck." Then he seems to come to a decision and sits up straight. "Okay. I'll just say it. You don't have to bury yourself away because of me. Because you're afraid of what I'll do. Things are different now, Justin. _I'm_ different. I don't expect you to believe it because, fuck knows, I've never given you any reason to think I could be anyone other than Brian fucking Kinney for the rest of my life; but if you'd been around you'd have seen it for yourself. Everyone else has. I'm not saying I've turned into a monk or anything, but I don't try to drink or fuck myself into oblivion every time I hit a wall anymore. When I told you I hadn't brought a guy home since you left, I was telling you the truth. If I want a trick, I do him in the Backroom or at the baths; I keep it where it belongs."

"And why do you think this is any of my business?" I hope he can't hear my voice trembling. I don't want to hear what he's saying.

"Because I want it to be your business," he says impatiently. "Justin, I was fucking worried sick about you … I thought that I'd never see you again, and I couldn't stand the thought that it was me who drove you away. I knew how vulnerable you were … I told you the Loft was your home, and then I expected you to just sit and take it whenever I felt like doing a trick on our couch or our bed. It wasn't just heartless; it was fucking disrespectful, and I can't apologise enough for the way I treated you."

"So, the whole guilt trip, then?" I try to sound sarcastic, although my mind is reeling. Brian Kinney just said sorry. _Really_ said sorry. And had he said, _our_ bed? "No wonder you came running to Baltimore to fetch me."

"I came because I was afraid for you," Brian says quietly. "And because I missed you."

"Missed fucking me, you mean," I retort.

He gives a little lopsided grin. "I'd be a liar if I denied it. But if it was just the sex, I could have dealt with it. I missed _you._ More than I could ever have believed possible."

"Please, Brian…" I'm almost begging him. My stomach is in knots. "You don't have to say all this, I know you don't want to, and it doesn't matter anyway…"

"It matters to me!" Brian yells, the tendons on his neck standing out. "And you're going to fucking well hear it, whether you want to or not. Because I am _not_ going to go through that again; knowing that you're gone and I don't have the chance anymore to tell you how I feel, because you might be living in another country, or with someone else, or fucking dead, and it's too fucking late!" He leans forward into my face and I scoot back in my chair, afraid he's going to grab me. But he calms down and sits back, breathing heavily.

"I'm sorry. And you're right, saying this isn't easy for me; I guess it never will be. But I have to, Justin, because you're making decisions about your future based on facts from the past … facts that no longer apply. I've changed. Maybe as much as I can, maybe not. I don't know. But enough to say that I want you back in my life; as my partner if at all possible, but if not, then at the very least as my friend."

I try to answer, but my throat has closed completely. I make a small, strangled sound.

"Christ." Brian pinches the bridge of his nose. "I didn't want to lay all that on you like this. You just haven't given me a choice. Again." He reaches out and takes both my hands; I think I'm paralysed because I can't fucking move. "Justin." His eyes are locked onto mine, intent, worried, sincere. "Are you happy? Because if you are, then I swear on Gus' life I'll walk away and I'll never bother you again. All you have to do is say it. I know you won't lie."

I have never really been able to, not to him: never since the beginning. "No," I whisper. "I can't even remember being happy."

I can feel his hands shaking. "Do you still love me?"

My head nods before my mouth works.

"Okay," he breathes, and laughs suddenly, his whole face lighting. He lets go of my hands. "That's what I hoped to hear. And all I need. Now it's all yours."

"What?" I'm struggling to make sense of all this. What the fuck he's trying to do.

"I told you everything was your call, and it is." Brian's still smiling like he's won the Lottery or something. "You might still love me, but you sure as hell stopped liking me. And I want the chance to put that right. All you have to do is to keep an open mind about me, like you did when we first met. Because that's more or less the way it is: you haven't met me yet. And maybe, when you do, you might start liking me again."

"And if I don't?" My heart's pretending it's a rabbit's.

"I'm prepared to take that chance," Brian says softly, "for as long as you want." He leans down and presses a single kiss on my forehead. "Now, let's make a deal on this fucking poster."

* * *

BRIAN

I walk down the six flights from Justin's with a big sappy grin on my face. He's agreed to take the commission for $500 plus a bonus if he delivers early. About my other proposition, he hasn't said yes. But he hasn't said no.

I'm walking on fucking air.

* * *

TBC


	35. Chapter 35

VERSE TWO Chapter Fifteen

JUSTIN

"Ohmigod!" Daph squeals. She throws her arms around me and kisses me, bouncing up and down with delight. "He actually _said_ that? That he wants you back?"

I struggle uselessly to free myself, but she's having none of it. She's too excited to notice.

"Daph, let go. And why the hell are you so pleased, anyway?"

She pulls a face at me. "Well, _duh_. And you aren't?"

"Of course I'm fucking not," I snap at her. "I told you, I can't go through all this shit again."

She frowns. "And who says you have to?"

"Because I will!" I don't understand what she's not getting. How many times do I have to explain?

"Justin." She puts her hands on her hips and sticks out her chin. "Brian fucking Kinney said he wants you back in his life … as his _partner_ … how is that a bad thing?"

"Because he _is_ Brian fucking Kinney. He doesn't even do boyfriends. And believe me, I know."

"But, Justin… what if he's changed?"

"What if he hasn't?"

"Well, you're never going to know unless you give him a chance. Like he told you!"

"Like his shrink told him to! The shrink he always claimed he never believed in!"

"Well, that's exactly what I'm talking about. If Brian could have been wrong about that, then he could have been wrong about other things as well. Like not doing boyfriends!"

I feel like kicking something in frustration. "I've got what I wanted, Daph! My own place … my own money … I like it. I can't give it up and go back to being Brian's kept boy! Not when I know that in a few months, when he's got bored with me being around again, I'll be back where I started!"

"Did Brian ask you to give it up?" she demands.

"No," I admit. "He told me to take as long as I want … that he'll wait."

"Then there you are!" Daph exclaims triumphantly. "Take your time … see what happens. Keep your flat, and your job, and your independence, _and_ give Brian a chance!"

"I'm scared, Daph." It's the truth.

She gives me another hug. "I know. But what have you got to lose? It's not like you're exactly happy, you know."

"I'm happier than I was when I had to watch Brian fucking tricks in our bed!"

"Do you remember telling me how Brian could only see extremes? That marriage had to mean picket fences and convention and boredom? And that the only alternative was to have no kind of relationship at all? Well, can't you see that you're doing the exact same thing? Believing that the only alternatives for you are either to be a dependent, pathetic plaything for Brian or to shut yourself away from the world like … like … Miss Haversham."

Miss Haversham? Miss fucking Haversham? I don't think I've ever been so insulted in my life.

I throw Daph on the settee and tickle her mercilessly until she swears she's going to wet herself.

TBC


	36. Chapter 36

VERSE TWO Chapter Sixteen

BRIAN

"I just don't want anyone to treat him differently, that's all. I mean, don't make him feel anything's changed."

"Got it," Mikey says.

"But don't bug him, either … if he doesn't feel like talking, don't let your Mom get on his case. Oh, and don't forget to remind everyone not to keep grabbing him. It makes him jumpy."

"Jeez, Brian, I think we've all got the picture."

I know I'm acting like an idiot; but fuck, I'm nervous, and that's not an emotion I have much acquaintance with; a churning gut and clammy palms are _not _part of the Kinney mystique, thank you very much. In fact, and I think I might be freaking a bit now, I can't ever recall being nervous like this in my entire life. Because this is Justin's first foray into the bosom of his adoptive family and I really do not want it fucked up.

Personally I wouldn't have chosen Gus' birthday party for a first get-together – everybody's here, except for Ted, who's been keeping a pretty low profile himself since his spectacularly pathetic attempt to self-destruct; and Ben, who has to work on his pec definition. I don't want Justin spooked by too-much, too-soon family prying – especially since they aren't aware of how close the kid came to self-destructing, himself. But I know Justin has a big soft-spot for Gus – not to mention the fact that my son's birthday is such a pivotal date for us – so I guess I wasn't totally surprised when Mikey informed me that Justin had asked him if perhaps it would be okay - if Mel and Linds wouldn't mind - if he could drop by and bring Gus a present.

In fact, I was pretty fucking delighted that Justin had taken the initiative and made first contact. I took it as the first truly positive step towards re-establishing ties with him. And Sunshine's female fan club was pretty fucking happy about the development, too.

And then I started to think about all the things that could go wrong. Despite threatening Emmett on pain of death that he would _not_ attach himself to Justin's neck like a weeping limpet; despite Deb's assurance that she'd respect Justin's space _– I'm not a total fucking idiot, asshole! – _and despite my explicit instructions to Mikey that he would make no, repeat, _no_ involuntary remarks about violins or ungrateful twinks or any other inappropriate subject – I still fretted. After all, since when have any of them listened to _me?_

"He probably won't turn up, anyway. You said he had a shift first, at that shitty restaurant?" That's another thing that's irritating me – Justin's still working for that asshole, admittedly for fewer shifts.

"Brian, he said he'd be here when he finished. Just relax, would you? Come and have a fucking beer, or something."

I let him drag me into the kitchen, where Linds, Deb and Vic are busy setting out plates of food and ferrying them to the table in the dining room. Over the bustle I can hear a monotonous, tinny banging sound coming from somewhere deeper in the house.

"Where's Mel?" Mikey asks, pulling two beers from the refrigerator and handing me one.

"Delegated baby sitter," Linds whispers conspiratorially, nodding towards the distant racket. "It was the only way to get her to sit down for a while."

I follow Michael down the hall to the lounge, where Gus is sitting in the middle of the floor with a huge grin on his face, whacking the bejesus out of a small tin drum with a wooden spoon. Mel is seated on the couch with a mutinous expression.

"Remind me," she demands. "Who exactly bought him that fucking thing?"

"Um, that would be Theodore," I smirk.

"And just when I thought my opinion of him couldn't get any lower."

"Tell you what," I say, "why don't you go and get some fresh air? Go and chill out before the party starts. I'm sure I can watch my son for a while."

She opens her mouth for a snarky reply, then seems to think better of it. "They're your eardrums," she shrugs, and begins to get up. Mikey leaps forward to help her.

"For God's sake, Michael, I can still stand on my own! I'm pregnant, not a fucking invalid!" She stomps out the door. I can understand her irritation; in her baggy dungarees she's hardly even showing yet. I find myself feeling very sorry for the small morsel of humanity she's carrying; a mixture of Novotny and Marcus genes sounds like a conception from hell to me.

"Still not appreciating your chivalrous paternal instincts?" I grin, dropping to the floor beside Gus and trying to distract him from the drum with a toy puppy that squeaks when you squeeze it.

"The doctor said she has to take it easy because her blood pressure keeps going up. But she's still working late and not resting like she should and generally acting like a stubborn crazy asshole."

"No," I whisper to Gus, "Your Momma is a stubborn _cwazy_ _wesbian._"

He laughs back at me, drops his drum, and starts whacking the puppy with his spoon instead. He giggles with delight each time he makes it squeak.

Probably not gay, then.

*******************

Midday winds on into afternoon. Everyone stands round talking and laughing, snacking on sandwiches and dips and pastries. Gus falls asleep in the middle of his toys, still clutching his drum. I try not to look at the clock every ten minutes. I figure Justin won't arrive before three – he'll probably go home and change first – but I still jump when the doorbell sounds even though it's only Emmett, clutching a bottle of wine in one hand and a selection from the latest_ Torso Tots_ range in the other.

I help myself to another beer. I find myself in a bizarre conversation with Linds about selecting a school for Gus.

He's not coming. There's no way he's coming.

Then, at two forty-five, the doorbell rings again. I hear Linds' voice: happy, welcoming.

I hear his.

And then Linds is coming in with a huge smile on her face, and there's Justin behind her; a little shy, a little hesitant, a little wary.

So before anyone can react, I move.

*******************

JUSTIN

My heart's in my mouth as I ring the bell. I tell myself that it's okay, that I'll just drop off Gus' present, hang around enough to be polite, and then get out. I don't really expect anyone to make me feel uncomfortable but I'm sure I'm not an entirely welcome presence either, no matter what Brian says.

And of course he'll be here, and he'll be remembering how for the last two years this day's events have defined and shaped our relationship. He'll be as on edge as I am – and he's probably dealing with it in his own inimitable style.

But Linds opens the door with a wide smile and gasps, "Sweetie, I'm so glad you've come!" and kisses my cheek and takes my hand, and I follow her reluctantly to the dining room.

I see Deb with Mikey and Vic, Em sitting at the table with Mel: Brian standing alone with a bottle of beer in his hand. He's smiling.

And then he walks straight up to me, gives me a gentle hug and a kiss, and says, "Justin."

No one says my name like he does. No one ever has; no one ever will.

* * *

And it's not so bad. Everybody's really nice, and friendly, and normal. Or they make a good show of pretending to be. When Gus wakes up and sees me, he gives a joyful little squeal and toddles over, arms stretched out for a hug. So I pick him up and he shows how glad he is to see me again by twisting my hair in his sticky fingers and then trying to eat it, until Brian manages to detach him. Actually I'm touched that he remembers me

I give him his present, which is box of fat Kiddy Krayons and a drawing book, and we sit on the floor together and I draw him pictures and he draws me squiggles. When he toddles off to show his Mommies his latest masterpiece, I get up and join Em on the couch. He hands me a glass of wine. "How's it going, Baby?" he asks.

"Everything's fine, Em."

"It's just you look a little peaky. I hear your boss is a good old-fashioned redneck slave driver." Em shudders delicately. "Is he running that cute little butt of yours into the ground?"

"Nothing I can't handle," I smile. Although I really am tired; Sunday lunches can be such a bitch.

Emmett glances at me; looks away, then back. "You know," he says, "everyone thinks I'm just a big nelly-bottom without the sense God gave me, but just because I like a little gossip now and again it doesn't mean I can't keep my mouth shut when it's important. Or that I can't give a fairly impartial opinion. So if you ever want to talk to me, Justin, about anything that might be worrying you … I'm right here, Baby."

I feel something suspiciously like a lump in my throat. "Thanks, Em," I manage to say.

Emmett leans forward and kisses my ear. "We all miss you," he whispers, "and we_ all_ love you."

For a fleeting moment I want to believe him. Then I pull away and stand up; I suddenly need to be alone – I'm afraid my emotions are showing too much. "I'm going outside for a smoke."

"Okay, Baby," Emmett replies, "But don't be too long. I think they're going to get the cake in a minute."

* * *

I make my way out into the garden. The sun's still really warm even though summer's long gone and the leaves are beginning to fall. I wander down across the grass to the bench behind the shrubs; it's nice and secluded there, and I figure I'll sit for a while and let myself settle a little before the cake-cutting. I flop onto the warm wood, dig out my tin and roll a cigarette.

I light it and draw deeply, savouring the burn. I close my eyes against the sun and let the mellow warmth flow through my body, easing my tired, aching muscles. I've always liked the way this little spot, masked from the house and drive by bushes and small trees, can make me forget for a moment that I'm even in the city – here it always feels like countryside.

Five more minutes. I lay back on the bench and take another drag at my rollie. I close my eyes again.

* * *

"Where's Justin?" Lindsey asked, looking around. "We're going to cut the cake."

"He went out for a smoke a while ago," Emmett said. "He must still be in the garden."

"Well, go find him so we can blow out the candles," Deb said. "Gus, Honey, no," she added as the little boy made a grab for the matches.

Emmett hurried out into the garden, hoping that the boy hadn't just taken off without a word to anyone. He seemed so quiet, so sad; nothing like the Sunshine he used to be. Emmett's sympathies had always inclined towards Justin; it seemed so unfair that such a flower of a boy should be doomed to be so frequently and predictably crushed under The Great God Kinney's careless boots. And yet Brian had changed, there was no denying it. Emmett had been sceptical at first along with everybody else, but four months of what was (for Brian, anyway) unprecedented abstinence from the hedonistic excesses of his nature had come a long way towards convincing Emmett that his intentions were genuine. It seemed as if Brian, having at long last discovered the treasure that fate had thrown in his way, was finally prepared to fight for it.

Seeing no sign of Justin, Emmett set off towards the shrubs at the end of the lawn, where the bench was hidden. Then he pulled up suddenly.

Justin was there, curled up on his side on the bench, obviously asleep; and he wasn't alone. Brian was crouched beside him, close to the boy's sleeping head; Emmett could see his face clearly.

Brian was smiling a little, a soft, loving, proud smile; it reminded Em somewhat of the way he looked at Gus sometimes, only more intense. And he looked … happy. It wasn't an expression Emmett had ever associated with that particular face before.

Screened by the bushes, Em watched. He saw Brian reach out and tenderly brush Justin's hair; then suddenly he stiffened, his attention seemingly caught by Justin's right hand where it lay curled beside his face. Brian leaned a little closer and Emmett saw his smile fade as he hesitantly touched Justin's finger.

Emmett turned and walked back towards the house where he would be out of Brian's sight. "Justin!" he called loudly. "Where are you, Baby? We're going to cut the cake."

TBC


	37. Chapter 37

VERSE TWO Chapter Seventeen

BRIAN

I drive back to the Loft after dropping Justin off at his place, and I'm not sure what I'm feeling. I was so fucking pleased to see Justin turn up after all, and relieved that things had gone so well. Nobody had tried to smother him or be too curious, and after his initial hesitancy he'd begun to relax a little, especially after Gus had been so obviously happy to see him again.

And when I'd gone outside after him and found him curled up asleep on Linds' bench, he'd looked so fucking beautiful there in the sun that it had taken all the control I had not to just pull him into my arms and kiss the shit out of him and never let go of him again.

And then I'd spotted the tattoo.

_Resist._

What the fuck was that? Resist what? Me? Himself? Life? What?

Part of me wanted to shake the little twat for daring to sully his beautiful skin; for letting that ugly black ink stain it, even if only on his finger.

I guess I should be glad he hadn't had it stamped on his forehead.

And yet it's his body, and I have no control over how he treats it.

It doesn't mean I have to feel good about it, though.

The tattoo is a visible scar to replace all the unseen ones that are branded on his heart, his mind, and his soul. The scars life put there. His father. Chris Hobbs. Me.

I guess he needed it.

And if it serves as a reminder to Justin, then it can do the same thing for me: so that _I_ won't forget, either. Maybe his scars are permanent; maybe no matter what I do, I'll never be able to completely erase them. But I can make damned sure I never add to them again.

At least I'm confident of that.

* * *

JUSTIN

I'm so fucking glad I decided to try painting. It doesn't require the delicate muscle control that drawing does, so it doesn't cramp my fingers in the same way: and working horizontally on a table instead of an easel helps too. Plus I can work on larger canvases, which means I don't feel as restricted as I do when I'm having to limit my pieces to the confines of a computer screen. Using paint feels more liberating, somehow; I feel a greater sense of connection with what I'm creating. Designing by computer software may have helped initially, but it never gave me the satisfaction of really being an artist – not like the smell, and the texture and the spontaneity of paint does.

I stand back and study the piece I'm working on.

For the first time since I was bashed, I think I'm actually happy with what I'm producing.

When I went back to P.I.F.A., my tutors were all a little concerned with the work I was turning out. Not with its execution, but with the content; they said there was a bleakness, a negative aspect to all my pieces which came across as – not to mince words – morbidly depressing.

They didn't have to tell me; I could see it well enough for myself. It was as though something was missing – as if some vital, essential spark that had always driven my creative desire had just suddenly died. My muse, I suppose.

Now, for the first time in what seems like forever, I can feel the urge returning … I'm looking forward to getting my paints and brushes out, to losing myself in the creative process again. I can actually see where this piece is going, and I can't wait to finish it.

I gather up my brushes, wipe them off, and put them in the turp jar to soak. I study the painting again.

Yes. I definitely like it.

As I start cleaning myself up, I find myself thinking about Gus' party. How nice everyone was to me. Of course, I'm sure they were all just trying to make things easy for Brian, but even so it kind of made me feel good: until that point I hadn't realised how much I'd missed the ease of their company; the silly banter, the laughter, even the sarcastic sniping that always went on. It felt so familiar and comfortable, I even found myself laughing a couple of times. And it was great to see how much Gus has developed, and to realise that he hadn't forgotten me.

And Brian … he'd been really kind, too. The way he had come straight up and greeted me so warmly in front of them all, like he truly wanted me to be there. And when I'd woken up in the garden with Em calling for me, Brian had been standing there looking at me with such a strange expression … like he desperately wanted to tell me something. But all he'd said was that he'd come to fetch me so Gus could cut his cake, and then took my hand to help me up, and walked back to the house with me without saying another word.

And then when he dropped me off at my place he floored me completely by asking very sweetly and simply if he could have my phone number, so he could ring and maybe take me out for a drink sometime. Like he was asking for a fucking date, or something.

I'd been so stunned that I hadn't even thought about saying no. He looked so hopeful, and nervous, and I just found myself giving the number straight off, which he immediately keyed into his cell. Then he kissed my cheek and murmured, "Later," the way he always used to and smiled at me. And everything seemed okay, somehow.

When I got indoors, I soundly berated myself for being a spineless faggot. But really, this is the only thing that Brian's ever asked of me – to simply give him a chance. And no matter how much I doubt his words or his motives, don't I owe him at least that?

The trouble is, if I'm totally honest with myself, Daphne's right. If I can't be with Brian, then I can't envisage my being with anyone else, either. I'm not totally naïve; I know that I can't say that now is forever, and that I will always feel the same way I do now. I've seen hot guys; I've fucked a few since I left Brian. Perhaps one day I might even come across one I could love. But no one has ever made me feel the purely visceral, irresistible need that Brian did, and still does, every time he walks in the room. That flash of energy between us was there from the first instant we made eye contact, and I have no reason to believe that time or distance will ever lessen its impact.

And it's not even as if sex was the only bond between us – speaking personally, of course. I know that intellectually I'm the only one of Brian's circle who can match him … our thought processes mesh every bit as seamlessly as our bodies do. We have the same way of seeing things, the same sense of humour, the same competitive streak – we just always seemed to spark off each, whether we were doing crosswords together, or watching game shows seeing who could get the most answers, or even vying for tricks at Babylon. We share the same hunger to succeed. And those times when he was mellow and relaxed, well, they were the best of all; just pottering about the Loft with him, cooking or listening to music or even doing nothing at all except hanging out and enjoying each other's company.

Whether I like it or not, Brian marked me that first night; when he said, _whoever you're with, I'll always be there_, he was speaking no less than the truth.

So I know that if I ever do end up with another man, like Ethan, then in some fundamental way such a relationship will be a sham. Because I will spend the rest of my life comparing him with Brian; resenting him, I think, for falling short; regretting a past I can't ever escape from, as well as a future that can never be. Always unfulfilled. And that wouldn't be fair, either to him or to me.

I've come a long way in the last few months. I've learned to support myself, to live alone: to make my own decisions, for good or bad. To accept disappointment, and hurt, and loneliness – not only that, but to accept them as a result of my own behaviour. Because every choice we make has consequences, and even the smallest mistake can have repercussions that echo down the years, long after their origins are forgotten. _I_ was the one who stalked Brian; _I_ was the one who wouldn't listen; my family imploded because of my behaviour; fuck, _I_ was even the one who provoked Hobbs in the first place, by outing him and humiliating him in front of his buddies. I'm not saying I should have stayed in the closet, but I could at least have acted with a little more circumspection. I'm wiser now. I know I'm not the same little Sunshine everyone patted on the head and humoured; but I'm still on my feet, and that's all that counts.

If Brian wants me to get to know the 'new' him, then he'll get to know the 'new' me as well – and I'm sure that once he does he'll realise that, if he can't have me physically, then I really don't have much to offer him anymore.

And then, maybe he'll understand that it's time to let go.

TBC


	38. Chapter 38

VERSE TWO Chapter Eighteen

BRIAN

"It's not a date, Mikey. I'm just taking him for drink."

Michael laughs disbelievingly. "Right. So there's another reason why you've changed your outfit like, ten times?"

I try on another shirt and study my reflection. Nope; too tight.

The trouble is, I don't know what image I want to project. Hot, yeah, of course: fuck, I want Justin to remember what he's missing. But on the other hand, I don't want to look slutty; I don't want him to feel that I'm angling to get into his pants – or anyone else's. Formal enough to look respectful, but casual, too.

This relationship stuff sucks.

"Are you taking him to Woody's?"

"Yeah, so every faggot on Liberty Avenue can gawp at us," I tell him sarcastically. "That'd go down well."

Actually, I know exactly where we're going. Somewhere anonymous, intimate, private. _The Copper Kettle_ will fit the bill nicely.

Eventually I settle on a long-sleeved olive green Loretta Young number: the surface of the silk has a sheen like oil. My black Kalvin Klein pants set it off beautifully. Perfect.

Satisfied, I grab my wallet, cell and keys, stuff them in my pockets and pull on my overcoat. I take Mikey by the shoulders and give him a smack on the forehead. "Wish me luck."

"Luck," he says, smiling. "I mean it, Brian"

Looking into his eyes, I can see he does. I think this business with Ben has helped him, in a way; it's made him realise what he has with the professor and to try to fight for it. To finally commit to something in his life other than just being my Best Friend. And from what Mikey has said, Ben's fighting for it, too.

I'm glad for him. Mikey deserves to be happy.

Now all I have to do is mend my own fences.

* * *

JUSTIN

"What would you like?"

I try not to look surprised; Brian doesn't usually bother to consult me; he just assumes I'll drink whatever he's having. But he's standing waiting patiently, so I answer, "Beer would be fine."

He nods and crosses to the bar while I take off my jacket and look around.

I hadn't expected to go to Woody's, or anywhere else on Liberty Avenue for that matter. I was sure Brian wouldn't want any of his friends seeing us together, especially Michael. He'd never live it down.

Instead we go to this quiet little bar on the other side of town with subdued lighting and small, private tables scattered about. It's quaint in a non-tacky way – the chairs are varnished wood, as are the tables, and there are even a couple of wooden settles by the open fireplace. It's a shame the fire is only gas and not real logs, but it's still cosy, and I love the way the flames reflect in the copper pans and kettles on the hearth.

Brian comes back with two glasses of beer, sets them on the table and then shrugs off his overcoat. He folds it carefully and lays it on the bench beside him. Then he sits down opposite me.

He's wearing this incredible shirt; obviously silk because the dark green material shimmers with brown and gold reflections when he moves. I realise the shifting colours exactly match the colours of his eyes.

I can feel myself staring and I look hastily away, but not before I notice a little smile on Brian's lips.

Fuck. Resist, Justin.

"So," I say as casually as I can, "do you come here often?"

Brian's eyebrows rise.

"Well, I don't know what to say," I tell him. "I've never done one of these, either."

"Justin. We're having a drink together. No pressure."

Huh. Easy for him to say. How are you supposed to make small-talk with the guy who fucked you for a year and a half?

I cast around for a topic that isn't dangerous. "How's work?"

"Fine," Brian replies. "Ryder's still an asshole. The Bobbsy Twins still fuck up every time I take my eyes off them. Cynthia still thinks she knows better than I do."

"She does," I grin, and Brian snorts.

"How about college?" he asks.

"Okay," I shrug. I take a drink of beer. "It was kind of weird at first … getting back into that routine." I run a finger up and down the side of the glass, doodling patterns in the condensation. "Sometimes I feel so much older than everybody else there."

"Stands to reason. You're bound to feel a little dislocated to start with. Give it time." Brian lights up a cigarette. He offers me one, but I shake my head. I really prefer my roll ups now.

Just then a lean guy wearing jeans and leather jacket walks in. He's quite striking looking; although he appears to be not much older that Brian, his hair is completely silver. He walks to the bar and orders a drink, then turns and stands with his back to the counter, studying the few patrons.

His gaze eventually finds our table, and he sees Brian. He smiles a little: in recognition, and also in pleasure, I think. I nudge Brian's knee. "Looks like you've got an admirer," I say.

Brian glances over his shoulder at the guy at the bar, and his face changes.

"You know him?" I ask.

Brian turns back to me. He takes a swallow of beer. "Yeah," he says. Suddenly he looks and sounds cautious. "That's Doctor Alex."

"What? Doctor…?" Then the penny drops. "He's the guy you've been talking to?"

"Yeah. I used to come here sometimes to meet him."

"So is that why you brought me here?" I demand. "So he can observe me like some fucking mouse in a maze and give you some more tips?"

* * *

BRIAN

Fuck, he looks hot. He's wearing this soft wool ice-blue sweater with a pair of cream linen pants that cling in all the right places. The sweater has a V neck and he's pushed up the sleeves, so I've got plenty of smooth, pale skin to admire. I watch the movements of his throat as he swallows his beer, and find myself focussing on the pulse I can see beating at the base. I know exactly how it feels to suck on that spot, exactly how it tastes.

Justin has a beautiful throat.

I think I know how vampires feel.

In fact, he really ought to wear something to call attention to it; a thin gold chain, perhaps. Nothing flash or ostentatious: just … classy.

I remember Christmas isn't so far away.

Or what about a Rolex? A big, chunky watch would look really hot on his slender wrist. I find myself looking at his forearms: noticing how the fine, golden hairs catch the light.

Justin has really hot arms.

And hands. Well, okay; they'd be better if he didn't chew his finger nails. And if they didn't still have traces of paint ground into them.

But still hot. After all, I know what he can do with those fingers.

In fact, the only thing about him that isn't hot are those fucking god-awful sneakers he insists on wearing. His feet deserve so much more than that, because if we're talking hot then Justin's feet are _seriously_ hot.

Nobody has ever figured out that I'm actually a bit of a foot man; for me, a nicely shaped foot is right up there along with asses and cocks on my list of attractions. And Justin's feet are … hot. Especially the cute way his toes scruntch up when he comes. I wonder if still he's wearing those fucking silly baggy socks … I have a vivid mental image of peeling them slowly off and then sucking Justin's toes one by one…

" … an admirer," he says, nudging me and nodding over my shoulder.

"Huh?" I turn my head, and there's Alex standing at the bar, looking straight at me.

"You know him?" Justin asks.

I'm still lost in fantasies about his feet. My wits are shot to shit. "Yeah," I hear myself blurting. "That's Doctor Alex."

And I totally knew that wasn't the right thing to say even before his eyes turned the exact same shade of ice as his sweater.

TBC


	39. Chapter 39

VERSE TWO Chapter Nineteen

BRIAN

"Is that why you brought me here?" Justin demands. "So he can observe me like a fucking mouse in a maze and give you some more tips?"

I can't believe this is happening. One minute I'm sitting there in a happy, horny glow: and the next, Alex walks in and everything goes to hell in a handcart.

How the fuck did that happen? Why didn't I realise that Alex might turn up? I desperately try to salvage the situation.

"Justin … Christ, I didn't arrange for him to be here. This is his local, for fuck's sake. You can't think I'd get him to spy on you … you can't think even _I'm_ capable of being that much of an asshole!"

He's glaring back at me. "On the contrary, I know exactly how much of an asshole you're capable of being!"

I can see Alex out of the corner of my eye; he throws back his drink and walks straight out of the bar. I assume he has assessed the situation and has reacted with his usual discretion; if so I silently thank him for it.

"Justin, he's gone. It was just a coincidence … Jesus, if I'd have wanted him to psychoanalyse you on the sly I'd hardly have told you who he was, would I?" I'm appealing to his reason, here.

The glare doesn't fade. I rub my hand helplessly through my hair. I try again. "Look, I brought you here because I thought neutral territory would be good. I wanted somewhere quiet and private so we could talk. I remembered this place. I never even thought about Alex being here." I hold his gaze, determined to show I'm not lying.

Slowly, to my immense relief, Justin relaxes slightly. "Okay. I guess that would be a dumb idea, even for you." His mouth twitches. "He wouldn't have been able to hear anything, anyway. Unless he reads lips."

I smile back at him. Okay, good save. Now fucking concentrate, Kinney, and get your mind off your dick.

"So … why did you?" He glances at me from under his lashes.

"Why did I what?"

"You know. Talk to him. After everything you said about therapy."

"I told you. After you left, I was a mess. It was affecting everything."

"But you'd have got it out of your system eventually. You always do."

"Yeah, until the next time. And I don't want to lose any more than I already have. I'm kind of running on empty, here."

Justin meets my eyes. "And has it helped?"

I take a drink of my beer and think about exactly what I want to say to him. "I don't know," I tell him honestly. "But I can say that Alex helped me understand some of the reasons why I react the way I do. Why I push people away like I do. And understanding why that pattern of behaviour occurs hopefully gives me the chance to pre-empt it, and react differently."

Justin's studying his glass, but he's cocking his head in the way that means he's paying attention.

"My old man was a bully," I tell him quietly. "The more something squirmed, the harder he kicked it. And there's more of him in me than I care to admit."

Justin's head shoots up. "You're not a bully!" he insists indignantly. "You're one of the most generous people I know!"

"Yeah, with my money. Not with anything else."

"Not true, not true," he says, shaking his head. "You took me in, you spent time with me, you paid for everything, you even taught me how to be _touched_ again … you never got mad, not even when I woke you up screaming every fucking night. Not even when I was too scared to walk down the street by myself. You never once made me feel like I was a coward, or that I was fucked-up something … you were nothing but kind and patient and encouraging."

"Thanks for the eulogy," I grin, inwardly elated to hear him defend me from myself. "But you're forgetting the part about how I brought tricks home whenever I felt like it. How I humiliated you by letting everyone think you were just my piece of blond boy-ass. How I poured cold water on every little piece of intimacy you offered me. How I let you believe you never mattered. Not to mention how I fucked your boyfriend."

"He wasn't my boyfriend," Justin says softly. "I thought _you _were my boyfriend. But I cheated on you anyway."

"You didn't cheat on me, Justin. How could you? I denied we were in any kind of relationship. I told you if I couldn't give you what you wanted, then go and find someone who could. Ethan gave you the emotional support you needed. I didn't."

"I honestly didn't think you'd care," Justin admits. "You never did when we were tricking. You always got turned on seeing me with other guys."

"Wasn't the same thing. They were just tricks … you could fuck them, but they could never touch_ you. _Ethan did. He touched your heart, and your mind. And I was the only one allowed to do that."

He gazes at me wide-eyed. "You're saying you were _jealous?_"

"Yep," I admit cheerfully. "Jealous as fuck. I just didn't know how to handle it."

He looks as though he's considering. Then he shakes his head. "No," he says. "I mean, I can understand you being possessive about people you care about and how you don't like sharing them. Like Linds with Mel, and Michael with Dave. But crazy jealous … no. Anyhow, it wasn't like I wanted to _be_ with Ethan, really … I just got so fucking tired."

My heart gives a little leap. At last, at fucking_ last,_ he's opening up a little. "Of what?" I prompt gently.

"Of _trying_," Justin says. He looks at me so sadly that my happiness plummets again. "I tried to be everything, Brian. I tried so fucking hard to satisfy you so you wouldn't have to look anywhere else; to be the wife in the kitchen and the whore in the bedroom and every other fucking thing in-between. I kept trying to find ways to define us, to make what you had with me different to what you had with everybody else. Like setting those rules; I was just trying to make my position stronger, to prove to myself I wasn't some trick you happened to fuck more than once. I didn't realise that no matter what I did it could never have been enough because _I_ wasn't enough. And by the time I'd figured that out, I'd forgotten who _I_ was."

Well. I'd wanted him to talk, hadn't I? Jesus, Sunshine.

"That was nothing to do with you." I lean forward on my elbows, my face close to his. "Your perfection or lack of it had absolutely nothing to do with my proclivity to fuck every available ass I saw. That was just a result of my screwed-up childhood … well, that and an innate talent," I smirk, and Justin rolls his eyes. Then I turn serious again. "Like my inability - or refusal - to form any kind of committed relationship … until I met you. And I was just beginning to come to terms with what that meant, when you got … bashed. Then everything changed."

"_I _changed," Justin says sadly.

"Let's just say we both had issues which made us react in opposite ways. And all that did was reinforce each other's insecurities, with each of us trying to control a situation that was beyond our capabilities. We were a bomb waiting to explode, Justin. But that doesn't mean there wasn't something good to begin with."

He shifts uneasily. He's got that look in his eyes again. "Brian…" I can hear the nervousness in his voice.

I hurry to reassure him. "It's okay, I'm not coming on to you or anything. I'm just explaining things to you from my point of view, so you can understand that you _did _matter; that you _do _matter, more than anything else in my life. Alex made me see that. He asked me what my three most important goals were. I told him: not turning out like my parents; setting up my own agency one day. And number one: getting you back. If we're starting with a clean sheet, then I want you to know that I regret a lot of things I did to you, and a lot of things I didn't do; most of all, I regret having spent the last seven months away from you."

I can see that I've thrown him, so he covers his confusion by strategic withdrawal and retrenchment. That's okay. I've seeded a few new plants in his little garden; I'm happy to sit back and let them grow. Maybe these will turn out to be fruitful.

"Alright," he says eventually. "I'll accept that … if you accept my apology too."

I raise my eyebrows. "For what?"

"For running after you all that time. For being such a little twat. For bringing so much shit into your life. For breaking my own stupid rules."

"If I hadn't been happy about them, I would never have accepted them in the first place."

"No," he insists. "They _were_ stupid. And I know you only agreed to them to humour me. The difference was, you kept them, even though you knew they were bullshit." He takes a small, nervous sip of his beer. "Do you know why I broke the no-kissing one?"

"I've got a pretty good idea." He looks at me in surprise. "Well, the kid was a virgin. I guess you felt some empathy… you wanted to be kind."

He nods. "I remembered how special you made me feel that first night. How lucky I was that you were the one who picked me up … how it could have turned out otherwise." He swallows and looks down. "I … I didn't even like him. I just felt sorry for him."

I reach out and lay my hand on his. "Justin. It's okay. I wouldn't expect anything else from you."

He studies me carefully. "I thought you were really pissed about it."

"I can't say I was happy. I've never liked you kissing other guys. But I understand why you did it."

He sighs. "Of course, I still fucked up. All I did was to make him think he'd fallen in love with me, so I still ended up hurting him."

I have no wish to say I told you so, so I keep quiet.

"Anyway; I'm sorry. Most of all, I'm sorry about Ethan."

"Justin, I told you. It's okay. I was the one who fucked up, not you." I don't want him to keep apologising; in my book, he never did anything to warrant it.

"I don't even know that I really went for him. I just liked the fact that he was an artist too, and we could appreciate each other's abilities … each other's dreams. He said he wanted a boyfriend who only wanted to be with him, not out tricking and clubbing every night. And like I said, I was tired. Of hurting."

I know how he feels, because listening to this is fucking agony. But I also know I need to hear it, so I force myself to sit still and concentrate on what he's saying.

"I know tricking means nothing, Brian. I know it's a fundamental part of you, like my art is of me. And I honestly believed I could handle it; when you took me along, or when we brought a guy back, it was even fun, because I could fool myself into thinking that it wasn't _you_ tricking, it was _us,_ so that made it okay." He gives me a small, wry smile. "Even though there wasn't one time when I wouldn't rather it had been just the two of us. And I thought that if I could share stuff like that with you, and if you thought it was hot, then you'd let me stick around. But after I got bashed, it got harder. It started hurting to see you with other guys."

I know exactly what he means. Looking back now, I can't say there was _ever_ a time when seeing Justin with another guy hadn't brought a sick little twinge to my gut. It would normally result in my acting even more of an asshole than usual just to prove to myself that, whatever that alien sensation might have been, it certainly wasn't jealousy. I want to tell him; but this is the most he's said to me in fucking forever so I'm not about to interrupt.

"I know now I was expecting way to much of you and you had every right to do whatever the hell you wanted in your own place, but you have to remember I was pretty fucked up at the time. I craved attention. And when I was around Ethan he always made me feel like I was special … that he was proud to be with me. He called me his muse. Flattered my ego, I guess."

"Which I never did." I take a big swallow of beer, trying to keep the bitterness from my face as well as my voice.

"Not_ never_," he says with a shy glance and a small smile. "But sometimes you couldn't hide how boring I was … how much I embarrassed you."

I find my mouth hanging open, and close it hastily. I'd _what_? "If that's ever the impression I gave you, then I can't tell you how wrong it was," I say firmly. "You have never, repeat _never,_ bored me or embarrassed me. What you saw was shame, Justin. It might have been masquerading as something else, but that's what it was. I've spent most of my life being ashamed of myself; I've just never been able to admit it. Persuading myself and everyone else that I simply didn't give a fuck was a helluva lot easier."

He laughs incredulously. "What do you mean, you were ashamed? How can you say that? Your whole maxim is no apologies, no regrets; you never doubt, you never back away; you're the most confident, fuck-you-if you-don't-like-it person I've ever met!"

I lean in to him like I'm confiding a secret. "So I'm a great actor. I started early enough."

His blue eyes are watching me, candidly questioning. "Justin," I say quietly. "Please listen to me. If you had left me for Ethan, or for anyone else – I'd have managed. I'd have gone on fucking and drinking and popping until something gave up and died, and I've have sworn to the whole world that I was happy doing it. Because there would always have been the chance that I'd see you again, or hear your name, or read about you; you'd still be living your life, happy somewhere, and that would have kept me going. But when I thought there was a chance that something had happened to you … that you might be _dead_ … I realised that I had no fucking interest in staying five minutes in a world that didn't have you in it. I couldn't face it, Justin; I never can. And that's the truth."

He looks at me wonderingly. Please, Sunshine, get what I'm trying to say here. Please, please, please.

"Okay," he says at length. "Clean slate it is. I'll accept that you feel you have something to apologise for, if you accept that _I_ do."

I'm more than happy with that arrangement. I smile at him. "Deal," I say, holding out my hand.

TBC


	40. Chapter 40

VERSE TWO Chapter Twenty

HENRY

"Hi, Henry," Brian says. He sounds quite cheerful, which I take as a good sign. He's kept his promise to ring me regularly since he took Justin back to Pittsburgh, though none of the calls have been very optimistic.

"How are things?"

"Improving, I think. At least we're talking now."

"It's the only real method of communication, Brian," I tell him, smiling. "Trust me on this."

"Well, I didn't have any other option. We were going fucking nowhere. And I suddenly realised that the only possible way out was to go back right to the beginning … to get to know each other. Without the falling-into-bed-and-fucking-each-other's-brains-out bit."

"And does Justin like the person he's seeing?"

"I don't know. Maybe. He's relaxing around me a little, now. I even make him laugh sometimes."

"How are his classes going?"

His voice changes immediately: he's excited, pleased. "That's what I was calling about. He's started painting … big pieces. They're fucking amazing!"

"Really?" I'm as happy as he is. I remember the promise in Justin's drawings. I'd really like to see how he handles a brush. "I'd love to see his work. Is there any way you could take some pictures and send them to me?"

There's a breathy silence. Then Brian says slowly; "I don't think I could do that. It wouldn't be right … not unless I asked him first, and I think he'd say no because of how you two parted. Maybe later he'll see things differently; but I don't want to push it now."

I can feel myself grinning. "Brian, you amaze me. The man I met a few months ago wouldn't have hesitated."

"I guess not. And I know it's not a big thing … it's just, this truce or whatever the fuck it is, it's so fucking fragile … I just don't want to screw it up, Henry."

And you know what? I believe him.

* * *

JUSTIN

"Justin? Oh my God, is that really you?"

"Yeah, it's me." I'm sitting in bed, propped up on the cushions. I've drunk two coffees and smoked four rollies nerving myself to make this call. I've just lit the fifth.

"I knew you were back … Debbie told me. But I never expected you to call…" his voice tails off.

I know how he feels.

"Listen … I'm so fucking sorry, Justin…"

"It's okay. It's not like we were a couple or anything … it was just, you told me that was what you wanted."

"It was." I can hear him sigh. "I didn't know who the fuck he was, Justin! He just came up to me when I was playing on Liberty Avenue and offered me a role in an advert he was making. He offered me two thousand bucks … I thought, yeah, why not, he's fucking hot … do you think I'd have gone anywhere near him if I'd known?"

No. I don't think he would have. "That's Brian," I hear myself saying. "Manipulator _cum laude. _I'm sorry you got caught up in his little games."

There's a little uncomfortable silence. Then Ethan says, "I thought you always told me he never got jealous?"

I inhale more smoke. "He doesn't."

Ethan snorts. "Yeah, right. The way he looked at me after you ran off … first it was like, just contempt, right? Like he was taking back something I'd stolen… like I should have known better than try and fuck with something of his. But then … he kind of got angrier. And sadder. As if I'd still managed to hurt him, somehow. Yeah, he was fucking jealous, alright."

And there's a tiny spark in me that really wants to believe it; that it hadn't just been about Brian pushing me off a cliff, or about paying me back, or even about him fucking some random hot guy regardless of who he was.

That Brian had told me the truth … that he was jealous.

Except Brian doesn't get jealous.

"So," I say, changing the subject. "How's the tour?"

I lie back and listen to him; telling me about Milan, Paris, London. He tells me about his new boyfriend. He sounds so happy, so optimistic … and I'm glad for him. Truly. After all, it wasn't his fault he wasn't a match for Brian Kinney … few are.

* * *

I think _The_ _Libertine_ may be my favourite film of all time.

I guess that's hardly surprising: John Willmott, as portrayed by Johnny Depp, is nothing but a 17th century bi-sexual version of Brian. Beautiful, caustic, narcissistic: brilliant, charismatic, cruel: selfish but generous: obsessively promiscuous. Possessed by the same need to outrage and shock: always liable to self-destruct. Both adorable and hateful.

Ultimately destroyed by the love he professed never to believe in.

Well, at least that'll never happen to Brian.

As Johnny's hauntingly beautiful face fades into the candlelight - _Well? Do you like me now? Do you like me now? Do you like me … now?"_ - as always, I'm lost.

Because I can't help but love a bad boy.

* * *

Later, I curl up in bed and find myself thinking. I should be pissed at Brian, at yet another example of the depths to which he's prepared to stoop to get his own way. I can't even pretend to be surprised – I'd always assumed Brian had engineered the whole thing without Ethan's knowing.

It's just … while I can accept without question Ethan's version of events, while I can absolutely believe the Brian I knew then would act that way … I can't say for certain that the Brian I know _now_ would.

We've seen each other every Saturday. Sometimes we go out; sometimes we order in and hang out in the Loft, eating Thai and watching old movies. We talk. We laugh. We even tease a little.

Sometimes it's like nothing has changed.

Then he drives me home in the Corvette he bought with his GLC commission, kisses my cheek. Whispers, "Later." And drives away.

It's not like he doesn't want me; it's perfectly clear that he does. Desire is in his face as he watches me… in his posture, in the tone of his voice. The way that he touches me lightly sometimes. He doesn't try to hide his arousal.

Yet in all this time, he hasn't pushed me. Hasn't come on to me. Hasn't got frustrated and pissed and hurtful. He's just been attentive, and funny, and considerate.

And really, I don't have a fucking clue what's going on.

TBC


	41. Chapter 41

VERSE TWO Chapter Twenty-One

BRIAN

I'm seriously fucked. I mean, I haven't tricked for nearly two weeks and I'm so horny I'd fuck Ted.

Okay. Not that horny.

But you get the picture.

Sometimes I wonder what the fuck I'm doing.

Then I remember; I know _exactly_ what I'm doing.

But the thing is, I should be rabid to fuck a trick. Any trick.

And I'm not.

I wouldn't have bothered tonight, but I'd just left Justin in my usual rock-hard condition and it was Saturday night, and it wasn't like I was going to be monogamous.

I just wasn't taking anybody home.

So I went to Babylon and picked up some hottie; that he just happened to have blue eyes and blondish hair helped. I dragged him into the backroom and did him against the wall, and he was okay.

But that was all. I'm repeating this, I'm horny as fuck. I should have pounded his ass into oblivion.

But he was … okay.

There's only one ass I want to pound into. One shade of eyes I want to look into. One mouth I want to kiss.

The most frightening thing of all is that I think I actually like the feeling.

JUSTIN

"Happy Thanksgiving!"

I wince; Daph's always strident when she's squiffy.

She flounces in and flops down on the settee. "So how was dinner with your Mom?"

"It was Thanksgiving … you know; turkey, potatoes, stuffing … what else can I say?"

"That you had a good time?" she laughs at me.

"I never used to enjoy it that much even when we were still a family." Mom had done her best, but there had been more uncomfortable silence than laughter at the Taylor table this year.

"I think Molly blames me," I say, bringing her coffee and a pack of cookies.

"She's like … ten," Daph says, picking up a cookie and nibbling. "How can she judge anything?"

"She knows she used to have a Dad, and because of me she doesn't have one now. Or at least, only a part time one."

Daph looks at me with her mouth open. "So what, you're saying you shouldn't have come out? You should have just kept on pretending, and everything would have been alright?"

I shake my head. "No, of course not. But I could have maybe acted differently … not rubbed Dad's face in it. Maybe he would have been more reasonable if I hadn't flaunted myself."

She frowns. "That's what your Dad told you the day he hit you."

"Well, maybe he was right." I pick listlessly at a cookie. "Same thing with Hobbs."

She goes very still. "Pardon me?"

"Daph, I thought he was hot. I flirted with him; went after him. Then I outed him in front of everyone."

"And that gave him the right to try to kill you?" she demands. She slams down her coffee and grabs my arms. "Don't do this, Justin! You've been getting better!"

It's my turn to stare.

"Don't give me that look!" she yells. "You're not stupid! You know what's wrong with you!"

"Huh?" I really have no idea what she's talking about.

She jumps to her feet and starts pacing up and down, ticking items off on her fingers as she talks. "Flashbacks. Nightmares. Panic attacks. Migraines. Lack of self-esteem. Mood swings. Depression. Any of that sound familiar, Justin?"

I'm very familiar with all of it. "P.T.S.D. The doctors gave Mom a heap of literature about it. It's a perfectly normal reaction to trauma."

"Which you have!"

"Which I had," I correct her. "I'm over it now."

Daph sits beside me again and takes my hand. "Is that what you really think … that you're alright?"

"Of course." I'm a little pissed that she hasn't noticed. "I haven't had a nightmare in ages. Or a migraine. And I can take care of myself now."

"Justin…" she swallows hard and suddenly her dark eyes start swimming.

Oh fuck, she's going to cry.

"I've known you for years. Longer than anyone." She blinks at me, tears spilling over her lashes. "Do you know what I liked best about you?"

"My devastating sex appeal?" I ask, trying to make her laugh; and it works a little because she thumps my arm and snorts.

"Asshole! We were, like five years old!" She cocks her head at me and turns serious again. "It was the way you never mentioned it … my being coloured. You never seemed to even notice."

"I didn't," I say truthfully. "It never really occurred to me. It still doesn't. The same way my being gay never bothered you."

"You were always so sure, so determined. And brave, and smart, and funny. And happy. Even with all that shit going with your Dad, and at school, and with Hobbs. Then after you got hurt … you changed. And I missed you. I didn't love you any less; but I missed_ you_; my friend. And then you ran off, and then I _really_ fucking missed because, hey, you could have been dead, you know. Even though I never believed you were. But then you came back, and you have no idea, no fucking idea how good that was."

I hang my head, not wanting to look at her. I can feel the old, sick, familiar guilt welling up again.

"But you were different again!" Daph continues, shaking my arm. "You were so quiet, and cold, and fucking_ dead_, Justin! It was like that film with the pods – where everyone looks the same and sounds the same but they've got no souls! And everyone was tip-toeing around you because we were all scared you'd run away again. And then you started seeing Brian again and it was like you were thawing out a little. You started painting. You even laughed sometimes. And I hoped, really hoped, that maybe you'd come back. But if you can sit there and tell me to my face" – she starts crying again – "that you believe you were in any way responsible for your parents' divorce or for what Chris did to you … then there's something seriously wrong. My Justin always knew where the blame belonged."

"Daph…" I hate seeing her upset. "I just … I have to accept that a lot of the shit that's happened to me is my own fault. "Like Brian … if I'd have just listened…"

"Stop it! I do _not_ want to hear that story again! It's getting old, Justin!"

I can feel my mouth hanging open. I don't think I've ever seen her so angry. At least, not at me.

"I know Brian was a shit to you! I know how he treated you! And so does he! That's why he's trying everything he can to put it right!"

"He just feels sorry for me," I whisper. I feel cold all over.

"Bullshit, Justin! He fucking loves you!"

"Oh yeah, and you'd know!" I snap back. I'm getting angry now. She's supposed to be on _my_ fucking side! "Like you were there every time he'd make me look a fool, or dumped me on my own while he went off with someone hotter … or threw me out…"

"I was there for the Zucchini man," she reminds me. "I told you. I know what he's done."

"Then how the fuck can you say he loves me?" I'm shouting now.

"Because I saw the two of you at the Prom!" Daph yells back. "And I saw Brian. After it happened … and at the hospital, later."

"You were so hot together. So amazing," Daph says. She's curled up against me, still sniffling a little. "I wish to God you could remember the looks on everyone's faces!"

"So it was the perfect Fuck You?"

"Oh yeah. But not everybody was pissed; I mean, some thought it was just like, wow! And a lot of the girls thought it was seriously hot. Because it was. You both were. You never took your eyes off each other… and Brian, he was more relaxed than I've ever seen him. He was laughing, showing you off … I got the feeling that he was so fucking proud to be there with you. And then, when he picked you up and spun you around and kissed you in front of all of them … I honestly believe that he'd simply forgotten where he was. He wasn't thinking about anything except you. And that was the moment I thought, _yes, Brian does love him._ And then you said you'd be back, and went with him to the car park."

I can feel myself shaking. I know the events, of course: but not the bloody details. Not the emotions involved. Mom always made sure I never saw any of the media coverage at the time, and afterwards ... well, nobody ever talked about it. Part of me doesn't really want to hear. I grip Daph's hand tightly.

"I guess it was about ten minutes later that a girl came in shouting that someone had been attacked. I just knew it was you. When I got to the car park, Brian was kneeling there beside you. He kept saying, _no, no, no,_ over and over again. Chris was lying a few yards away, moaning and cursing from where Brian had hit him. When I saw the blood I think I screamed; there were other people standing around, looking white and sick; someone said an ambulance was coming. I ran over and knelt down next to you and tried to touch you, but Brian sort of snarled and snapped at me; and when I looked at his face, Justin, I swear he didn't recognise me. I wouldn't have recognised him: he must have looked fucking ten years older…his hair all stuck up and his eyes wild and blood all over his hands and his lips where he'd been kissing you."

I feel physically sick. Poor, poor Brian. God, how he hates to feel helpless.

"He scared me," Daph continued. "But I wasn't going to leave you … so I just knelt there beside you and prayed and cried and wondered how things had got so bad. Someone fetched a rug from their car and put it over you. It seemed to take forever until I heard the sirens – the ambulance arrived first, and they had to virtually pry Brian off you so they could work. I grabbed his hand but I don't think he even noticed. He was clutching his scarf in the other – I think he'd tried to stop the bleeding with it because it was covered with your blood. I was telling the medics what you were allergic to, and what your name was, and what I thought must have happened. Brian was just staring at you, like he was sending you every bit of energy he had to make you hang on. And then they were loading you into the ambulance, and they were going to put Chris in with you. Brian yelled, _don't you fucking dare put that piece of shit in there with him! That's the bastard who did it! _So they called for another ambulance, and Brian just walked up to the back and climbed in too. And one of the guys said, _you can't come with us, Sir_; and Brian said,_ you try and fucking stop me._ The last thing I saw was him taking your hand as they closed the doors."

I thought I'd done with that pain. I haven't even begun. Whatever I tell myself about Brian acting the way he did out of guilt, I can't imagine how hellish that night must have been for him. Seeing it happen. Watching me bleeding. Waiting for sirens that wouldn't come. Riding with me to hospital.

I hadn't known he'd come with me. Had refused to leave me. I'd assumed he'd just followed the ambulance.

"I stayed to talk to the police. Once they'd taken my statement, one of girls gave me a lift to the hospital. Brian was sitting in the corridor outside Emergency, and Michael was with him. Brian was wearing that scarf round his neck, and he was absolutely silent. But I could see he'd been crying; the tears had cut tracks through the blood on his cheeks. He looked like he'd died himself.

"I asked Michael what was going on; he said that they'd taken you straight to surgery and that was all he knew. Then your Mom arrived, and she started laying into Brian about how it was all his fault, and then she saw the scarf and got hysterical. I was really glad when Deb and Vic showed up a few minutes later; together we got her into the rest room and managed to calm her down.

"When we got back outside, Brian looked at her and said_, I can't blame you for feeling the way you do. But unless you get me arrested, I'm not leaving here until I know. One way or the other._ I don't think your Mom had the stomach to do that. So we just sat around. Sometimes others would show up. Lindsay and Melanie; Emmett… even Ted. They'd stay for a while, then go home. Your Mom went home, to take Molly to school. I went home to eat and clean up. We came back; we waited again; we went home, tried to sleep; came back. We waited for three days.

"But Brian never left. Not to change, not to sleep. I think the only thing he lived on was the coffee that Michael kept pouring into him. I never once saw him eat. And then, on the third day, when I was beginning to wonder how long it would take for Brian to simply keel over, the doctor came and took your Mom to one side and told her that you were showing signs of waking up. Debbie went over and hugged her and thanked Jesus, and I started bawling; and Brian just stood up and walked away without a word."

I find my eyes stinging. I can imagine Brian sitting there, surrounded by people who were judging him, blaming him; I'm incredibly touched that he exposed himself to that just to find out whether I lived or died. "He must have felt so fucking responsible," I say.

"Yes, of course he did. But that wasn't the only reason he stayed! He loved you, you ass! He still does! Haven't you been listening?"

"If he loved me, Daph, then why did he never come back? Not for three fucking months…not a card, not a call, nothing. If he loved me, why wouldn't he have wanted to know how I was doing?"

And I can see that, no matter how much she wants to, she really can't come up with an answer to that.

TBC


	42. Chapter 42

VERSE TWO Chapter Twenty-Two

BRIAN

We're lying on the Loft floor on our backs, the top of my head touching the top of Justin's. We're stoned.

I don't usually indulge much when he's here: fuck, I don't need my inhibitions any lower than they already are – I find it hard enough to keep my hands to myself when I'm straight. But I'd got some new weed, and we'd had a really relaxed evening and I thought: what the hell. Justin's always hysterical when he's wasted.

Suddenly he says, "Do you ever think about the people who used to live here?"

I take a hit before replying. "No one used to live here, Justin. It was a fucking warehouse."

"Yeah, but lots of people worked here, right? Do you ever wonder about who they were … what their lives were like?"

I roll over and study him. He's wearing that scrunched up look that he always gets when he's trying to concentrate. I could never stop myself from kissing him when he looked like that.

"No," I tell him, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair back from his face. "I can't say I've ever thought about it."

"I do," he says. "I often wonder about who lived at my place before me… I mean, it's pretty old. Must have been a few."

"I'm sure. And you're right, it's really, really old."

He thumps me, then reaches over for the joint. "It's got_ character_," he says, waving his arm vaguely. "I _like_ character … people … places … things with _stories._ That's why I never really liked our old house … or Mom's new one. I'd never buy a new place … I like somewhere with _history_."

"It's the puritan in you," I smile at him. "Content over style every time."

"Are you saying I have no sense of style?" he huffs, sitting up with difficulty. I grab his arm and steady him.

"Well, do I have to point out your sartorial inadequacies? Not to mention your complete ignorance of any major interior designers?" I shake my head sadly. "I'm afraid that was one subject you totally flunked in."

"I am an _artiste,_" he announces grandly. "Pretentious trash like that is _totally_ beneath my notice."

"Pretentious? You're calling _me_ pretentious?"

He nods seriously, but he's got a wicked little smirk on his face.

"Oh, you are in such deep shit!" I pounce on him and he squeaks and tries to roll away, but he's too stoned; and before he can do anything he's pinned under me while my fingers dig into the sensitive flesh beneath his ribs.

"Brian! Fuck … you know I hate that!" he gasps, between squeals and giggles. I know he does. I just tickle him harder.

"I'm gonna choke!"

"Fine."

"I'm gonna throw up!"

"Be my guest, you'll be the one cleaning it up."

When I've finally relented and let him go he lies flat for a while, still giggling a little. It's so fucking good to hear him laugh again, even if it took a good dose of weed to get him there. I just lean on my elbow and enjoy the view.

Eventually he gets his breath back and pushes himself upright. "Fuck you, my ribs are sore," he complains, but he's still smiling.

"Teach you to respect your elders and betters," I smirk.

"Well, at least you got one right," he replies: and I wonder whether that retort doesn't merit another bout of punishment; but really, having him squirming about beneath me again probably isn't such a hot idea at the moment. Or rather too hot, I mean.

He staggers to his feet. "I guess I really ought to get going."

I nod, and try to get up myself. To my surprise, my legs aren't co-operating very well and I realise belatedly that my tolerance levels aren't what they used to be. I lean on the back of the couch, trying to get my balance.

"Um … Justin. I really don't think I'm in any condition to drive."

"Oh." He blinks at me. "Oh, sure. It's okay, I'll walk."

"The fuck you will. You're worse than I am."

"Am not."

I look at his flushed face and dishevelled hair and grin. "Are, too. Get a cab."

He fidgets a little: he doesn't want to waste his money on the fare.

"I'll pay. Don't worry about that."

He flashes me a little glance. He doesn't want that either. Whenever we've gone out, he's always insisted on paying half of the bill – which is why I usually suggest the Loft. I know he doesn't have much cash to spare, but I let him pay his way because I also understand he needs not to feel beholden to me.

"You can stay here, if you like," I say casually. "I'll drive you home in the morning."

He ponders, chewing his lip: so I turn away from him and make my way unsteadily to the refrigerator. As I'm reaching for a bottle of water he says softly, "Okay. If you're sure you don't mind."

I keep my back to him while I take several swallows of ice-cold water to clear my head: I make sure that my face is fully under control before I turn. "Of course I don't."

I keep out of the way, tidying and switching off lights while I wait to see what he's going to do. To my surprise and delight he bypasses the couch and heads for the bedroom. I cross to my laptop and pretend to do a few things, watching him surreptitiously as he struggles to free himself from his trainers. After several unsuccessful attempts to balance on one leg, when I was absolutely convinced he was going to pitch head first down the steps, he finally resorts to toeing them off. Another wrestling match with his jeans, and he crawls into bed in his t shirt and shorts. He's still got his socks on.

I close my laptop and go to join him. I'm quite steady now: I'd probably be okay to drive; but seriously, is that an option? I'm hardly going to pass up the chance of having him in my bed again, am I?

I undress with my back to him, keeping on my underwear. Then I carefully slide under the sheets beside him. He's curled on his side, facing away from me, just like the last time he was here; only he's not hugging the edge of the bed like then. I don't feel the same fearful rigidity. Encouraged, I lie on my side too, and put my arm around his waist. Just for a moment he stiffens, then as I feel him relax I move in against him, moulding my body around his. And he doesn't flinch, he doesn't shake … he's just here, warm and soft in my arms.

And it's perfect.

I can feel his easy breathing; his heart beating steadily beneath my hand. He's not freaking at all. I bury my nose in the soft tendrils of his hair, drawing in his old familiar fragrance: I gently kiss the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck. I feel him quiver. "Are you okay with that?" I whisper.

I feel him nod. I slide my right hand up beneath his head, so that my palm is cupping his cheek and my fingers splayed against his skull. I gently smooth the skin between his eyebrow and temple with my thumb, the way I used to when he had migraines. I hear him sigh. I think it sounds contented. "Close your eyes," I murmur, pressing my lips again to his neck. "I'll kiss you to sleep."

And then suddenly he turns in my arms and there he is: naked blue eyes; hesitant, shy smile.

My Sunshine.

He kisses me on the lips.

Okay: it's more of a head-butt, actually, with our mouths kind of colliding. On a scale of one-to-ten, compared with our old tongue-wrestling marathons it wouldn't even rate; but this is the first time for nearly nine fucking months that he's initiated any kind of physical intimacy, and do you know what?

Maybe I do have a heart, because it's aching like a bitch now.

But it's different: not the sickening, empty vacuum I carried inside for so long after I lost him … nor the dreary, hopeless yearning I felt after he came back.

This is like the pain of an abscess when it's been lanced: when all that foetid, poisoning pressure is finally released. Able to heal.

I tuck him into his old place beneath my left arm, his cheek pillowed on my shoulder. I kiss the top of his sweet head.

"Goodnight, Sunshine," I whisper.

JUSTIN

I feel his arm hesitantly reach around me, and I can't help flinching. But I allow myself to be drawn into his embrace, and then Brian snugs his body up against me and I feel myself relax into him. It's such a warm, familiar feeling; and suddenly for the first time in months I feel safe. Perhaps I shouldn't: not here in this bed, which has never really been mine; where I've never been anything but the most frequent guest out of hundreds. So often the bed in which I wasn't wanted. The bed where he fucked Ethan.

But that's not the whole story. This is also the bed where I lost my virginity; where I learnt pleasure and pain at Brian's hands; the bed in which he took me to places and experiences I had never dreamed possible. The bed which was my only safe haven after I'd been bashed.

The bed where I learned to love him.

And when he places soft kisses against my neck; when he folds me securely in his arms; when he asks so kindly if I'm okay; even when I feel his hard-on pressing against my leg it doesn't freak me. I feel I can trust him. All I want to do is fall asleep and stay there for the rest of my life.

Weed always does this; makes me silly and sentimental again. Gives me dreams I know have no basis in reality.

But he's trying so hard; I never realised he was capable of such physical restraint. And suddenly all I can think of is what a good man he is, under the posturing and bravado. How I'm perhaps the only person in the whole world who knows how much tenderness and compassion he's actually capable of.

See? I told you weed has this effect on me.

I find myself hoping that one day he'll meet someone capable of bringing out these qualities, the way I once believed I could. Someone who can make him forget all the shit he's been through … his father, his mother … me. Someone he won't be ashamed to acknowledge … someone he can truly love. Because I still believe that can happen for him. One day.

So I turn, and give him a quick kiss; and just for a second, as our eyes meet, I try to show him everything that I'm feeling; that I wish only the best for him. And when he pulls me against him - when I feel his warm, sleek skin beneath my cheek, his soft breath on my hair – I feel a sense of peace that I haven't experienced for months. Maybe not for years.

TBC


	43. Chapter 43

VERSE TWO Chapter Twenty-Three

"Get him a Rolex," Mikey says. "That's got to impress him."

"Or a car," Ben suggests. "I'm sure he'd appreciate his own transport. Can't be easy for him having to walk or bus everywhere in this weather."

"You should have hung on to the Jeep," Mikey grins. "You could have given him that."

I flip him the bird. I've already considered a car. But, practical as that would be, somehow it's not exactly what I want. Shit, I wish I had more experience of this present buying business. It's nearly Christmas and this time I want to mark it – and this time I want to do it right. "I want to get him something that'll knock his socks off … doesn't have to be expensive, as long as it's something he really wants." I stir sugar into my coffee thoughtfully.

"How about a painting?" Linds asks, feeding Gus a carrot stick. "I know who his favourite artists are. I can find out what works are available."

"Oooh, what about a holiday?" Emmett puts in. "Christmas in Paris! Now that's real romance!"

"I don't want fucking romance, I want…" I don't know what I fucking want.

"Well, if you want _my_ suggestion," Deb says, putting Ben's omelette and Michael's waffles on the table, "I'd get my ass over to his best friend's and ask her."

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I pull my collar up against the wind as I walk back to the 'Vette. I'm really pissed at how little I actually know about Justin. I mean, I _do_ know things, obviously: I know how to drive him crazy when I'm fucking him: I know he's a pain in the ass when he's hungry or tired: I know he can be a princess when he can't get his own way and I know which size clothes he wears. I know what he likes to eat.

But what's inside him? What he really wants? I don't have a clue. After more than two fucking years, you'd think I could at least pick him a present; but the only thing he'd ever expressed a desire for was myself, and my ego had been happy to figure that was enough. I'd never really thought any further.

Not like Mikey: I know exactly what he wants. Doctor Dave had never been right for him; too fucking arrogant by half. Too many assumptions. But Ben: he's a good guy. Well, now that he's knocked the steroids on the head he is. He's strong and dependable and that's what Mikey needs. He's talking about buying a house in the suburbs, and I can see that Mikey is right behind the idea. I always knew my best friend was a little housewife at heart, which was one of the many reasons why things could never have worked between us. Ben, on the other hand, is Grade One husband material. In many ways, he could do a lot better than Mikey… who, while he may have a heart of gold, wasn't exactly first in line when the IQs were being handed out.

Justin's not Mikey, even though he may have the same ideas about how a relationship is supposed to function. But because he wasn't afraid to show his love for me; because he didn't see it as something to be ashamed of, I'd done him the injustice of assuming that he wanted the same things as Mikey - interpreting his overtures as all-too transparent attempts to steer me towards monogamy and a life-sentence of commitment. If I'm honest, I can't see the kid ever wanting the kind of relationship that Mikey and the Professor have. I think that whatever the future holds for Justin, it doesn't involve cosy evenings sipping cocoa and happily settling for the mundane anonymity of suburbia.

No, he's a far more dominant character than Mikey, far more masculine. He's not even a total bottom - he's topped _me_, for fuck's sake, and I can't ever see Mikey doing the same for Ben.

Or don't want to. Christ, now I'll have _that_ picture in my head all day.

I pull out a cigarette, then fumble for my Zippo. Five pockets later and I realise I haven't got it. Fuck, I hope I haven't lost it. I stuff the cigarette back in the pack and walk on.

Justin would demand a partnership of equals. Always challenging. Never settling. Always growing.

I'm sure that life with him would be both Heaven and Hell, and all shades in between: but, boring?

Never.

That first night, when I took him back to the Loft: he was the sweetest fuck I'd ever had. Not just because there was this physical chemistry right from the moment I touched him, and certainly not because of his expertise. It was his very naivety, his gaucheness – so refreshing after the usual tricks with their stale posturing – his unashamed wonder at his body's response to me – _that_ was what made him such a turn on, and made him hotter than anything I'd ever seen.

And he was so fucking young. I'd never felt that sense of responsibility before; the need to make it as easy for him as I could, to make it special for him: to give pleasure rather than to simply take it.

It wasn't the last, or even the most satisfying time that we (and call it as it is, Kinney) made love, but it was certainly the first for me. And a revelation for both of us.

I guess that first night set the tone for everything that went after. One half of me can only see that scared, determined kid I need to take care of and protect … the age-old, primal male instinct to defend his mate. But he's a challenge, too: he's a smart and fearless man who provokes and arouses, invoking the need to master and dominate. And there I balance, teetering between love and lust, tenderness and passion: restrained by one, spurred on by the other – knowing that the likeliest outcome is for me to end up flat on my ass without a fucking leg to stand on.

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Daph looks at me incredulously. "You want to buy Justin a Christmas present?"

I wince. She always gets kind of screechy when she's excited. "That's the general idea. And since I don't want it to suck in any way I thought I'd come and ask the advice of the person who knows him better than anyone else." I smile sweetly at her.

She's practically bouncing. I know why she and Justin get on so well; they could be twins apart from the colouring. "So, what are you thinking of?"

"A holiday?"

She wrinkles her nose. "Kind of difficult unless you're going to have separate rooms."

Good point. "A Rolex?"

"Oh God, Brian, _boring!_ Besides, since when does Justin ever care what time it is?"

Fuck this. "I'm getting him a car."

"And how's he going to run it? He won't let you pay, and he can't."

Double fuck. "Okay, so how about you suggest something?"

She looks at me with her head on one side. "You've got to understand, Brian. You're trying to prove how much you care for Justin by how much you're prepared to spend on him. That's not going to impress him … he'll just think you're trying to buy him. I can tell you what he's always wanted … ever since he was a kid. Ever since I've known him."

"If it's Johnny Depp, he's taken. And straight."

Daphne grins wickedly, and suddenly I find myself thinking this was maybe not such a good idea.

"Oh, this is very easy to get hold of. And it won't cost hardly anything. But I don't think you're going to like it."

TBC


	44. Chapter 44

VERSE TWO Chapter Twenty-Four

JUSTIN

I smile as I fix the foil star to the top of my Christmas tree. It may be tiny, but it's a real one, like we always used to have at home – I never get the same buzz with an artificial one. And it's even potted, so it won't die … after the holiday I'll ask Mel and Linds if I can plant it in their garden, and then I'll be able to use it again next year. I've made decorations for it out of paper and tin foil, and hung it with some small pinecones, painted silver and gold.

I think it looks beautiful.

This is my first Christmas in my own place, and I'm determined to do it properly. Mom had wanted me to go to Nan and Granpa's with her and Molly, but I put my foot down about that. I want to be _here_.

Anyway, it's not like I'll be alone; Deb's commanded my presence at Christmas lunch tomorrow, so I shall have dinner with all the trimmings, plus more cold turkey and mince pies to bring home than I'll know what to do with.

I get my small collection of presents and spread them underneath the tree. I've already given Mom and Molly theirs, so there aren't many. There's a framed drawing of Linds, seated, with Gus on her lap, while Mel leans on the back of the chair smiling down at them. For Deb and Vic I've sketched a cartoon of the whole gang at one of Deb's Christmas gatherings: everyone is wearing paper hats and laughing, even Brian, who I've sketched lounging on the floor playing with Gus. I've drawn another cartoon for Michael, this one of Rage and Zephyr standing together on a rooftop at night, overlooking the lights of Gayopolis. For Ben, I picked up a 1940's Schaeffer fountain pen from the junkshop at the Mall. It's still in its original box. I know he prefers writing with pen and ink, so I hope he'll like it. For Em, I've got a Bette Davis triple-bill, and for Ted, a CD of _Tosca_, both of which I picked up at the Big Q bargain sale:

Brian's present is the smallest, but it cost me the most. The last time I saw him, he was trying to light up with one of those electronic lighters and cursing under his breath when it wouldn't catch, so I knew he'd lost another Zippo. The one I've bought him is warm brass instead of chrome – chunky and masculine. I'd spent a long time thinking about whether to get it inscribed or not: I didn't want anything sentimental, but on the other hand I really want him to have something from me that he can carry around with him and enjoy using. Eventually I settled on a simple: _To B.K., from J.T. _Even Brian can't be embarrassed by that.

I realise that, although I've got Ted a present, I have no idea when I'll see him again. Apparently, now that he's out of re-hab he's hooked up with his counsellor; who, bizarrely enough, is the same guy who nearly killed Ted with an over-dose two years ago. I know there's a lot of bad feeling between him and Em, and they avoid each other as much as possible. It seems a weird basis for a relationship to stand on, but then, I'm hardly in a position to judge, am I?

And as I'm reflecting on that subject, I hear a soft, familiar knock on the door.

Brian.

He's standing there, dressed in his long black overcoat, and he's wearing the strangest expression. For a moment I feel a sharp stab of fear; has something happened? Yet he doesn't look angry or sad – he just looks … kind of frozen.

That's when I notice the box he's carrying. It's got a big red bow on the top.

"Brian?"

He comes to life suddenly. "I wish to fuck you'd leave your cell on. I didn't know whether you were here or not."

"Sorry. I forgot."

He shifts his weight a little, and presses his lips together. If I didn't know otherwise I'd think he was nervous. "Can I come in?"

"Oh, sure." I turn back inside and Brian follows, still carrying his box. He shoves the door closed with his foot.

"I … um … I know it isn't Christmas until tomorrow, but I kind of needed to give you this today."

I stare at him, then at the box, which he's still holding onto with both hands. "You brought me a present?"

He smiles. "I thought it was about time."

"Wow. I'm stunned." I am, totally. Brian has bought a Christmas present for me? No fucking way.

"You'd better sit down," he says, looking more nervous than ever.

Warily I perch on the settee. If Brian doesn't want me standing up to receive whatever it is, I'm not sure I want it. Not after his last effort.

"Here," he says, gingerly holding the box out to me. I take it cautiously – it's not heavy – but then I feel a weight shift inside, and I hear…

BRIAN

He freezes, staring at the box. Then he raises his eyes questioningly to mine. "Go ahead," I tell him. "Take the lid off."

So he does; slowly, disbelievingly. The kitten immediately takes the opportunity to scramble its way out and onto his lap, mewing plaintively. I have to admit, it's a cute little fucker.

Justin sits there, seemingly shocked into immobility, until the little black morsel climbs up his stomach and presses a curious nose to his chin. Then his hand suddenly moves, stroking the kitten's back, and it responds with a throaty purr that sounds far too loud to come from such a tiny animal. "Is it really for me?" he whispers.

"Well, who the fuck else would I be carrying it around for on Christmas Eve?" I grin. Christ, I'm so relieved; I was afraid the little furball would start scratching and yowling and let the cat out of the bag, so to speak, before I could spring my surprise. But for once, things have gone exactly as planned.

And Justin's reaction is all I could possibly have hoped for. Look at him. Isn't he beautiful? His hair tucked behind his ear, his eyes sparkling, his smile flashing; totally engrossed in the small bundle of black fur as it begins to explore its new home. Then he looks up and laughs with pure delight, and all the breath goes out of me. I've only seen that smile once before; it's the same one he gave me after the Prom; the one he never remembered, the one I've never seen since. And my heart leaps because this is proof; I've finally, finally done it: I've made him happy.

The next moment he's in my arms, hugging me so tight I can feel his heart racing. "Thank you, Brian, thank you so much," he says. "I've always wanted a pet, but Mom and Dad would never let me have one."

"Good thing you aren't allergic to animals, then, otherwise it would have to have been a goldfish," I say, hugging him back. "And anyway, before you get too carried away, you ought to know that it was Daphne's idea."

"But you gave it to me," he laughs, still beaming. "And it's the best present I've ever had!"

"I know you really wanted a dog, but I didn't think it would be practical with the amount of time you're not here."

"No, you're right. It wouldn't be fair to a puppy." We watch the kitten as it tries to clamber back in the box, only succeeding in tipping it over itself. We both laugh, and Justin hurries to rescue it. "I still can't believe you got me a kitten!" He turns his eyes to me. "What is it, a boy or a girl?"

I raise my eyebrow. "Do you really think I'd introduce a pussy of any variety into your bachelor establishment? It's a tom, of course. I was going to get a pedigree, but then, knowing your penchant for waifs and strays I figured you'd rather have something that needed a home. So he's from the pound. He's de-flead, de-wormed, and he's had his first shots. You'll need to take him to the vet for the second course in three weeks. Already paid for, of course. "

He suddenly looks worried. "Oh my God, it's Christmas Eve! Can you stay here and watch him for half an hour while I go get him some food?"

"Relax, it's already taken care of," I tell him, smiling. "I've got kitten food, bowls, litter trays and enough toys to keep him occupied for a while. There's even an animal crate you can put him in when you're not here, until he's big enough not to get into trouble. So you can spend the day making friends."

I get another hug for that, and a kiss, and then I reluctantly release him.

"So what are you going to call him?"

Justin looks at the kitten, as it attacks the satin bow and tries to disembowel it, ears laid flat, tiny mouth wide.

"Rage, of course," Justin says, laughing. "What else?"

TBC

Dedicated to my darling Storm, who died 18 years old on Thursday


	45. Chapter 45

VERSE TWO Chapter Twenty-Five

JUSTIN

"Deb, really, I can't eat anymore," I protest as she starts heaping more turkey on my plate.

"Just another slice, Sunshine, and another piece of bacon," she says coaxingly, and I know resistance is futile. I wonder if I can smuggle some home for Rage.

As if reading my mind, Brian says, "You haven't told them what I got you, yet."

"Brian! You know we don't exchange gifts until after lunch!" Deb waves an accusing finger.

Brian smiles sweetly. "Yes, I know, but this couldn't wait until today."

Seven pairs of eyes settle on me expectantly.

I stare at him as he sits opposite, smiling at me. I'd figured he wouldn't want me to say anything, so I hadn't; I study his eyes, but I don't see anything discouraging there, so I answer simply; "A kitten."

There's a sudden silence, and I realise that everybody's staring from Brian, to me, and back again. "A _kitten?_" Mel repeats, her voice climbing an octave.

Deb walks round the table to Brian and gives him a hug.

"Sweetie, that's wonderful!" Em's bouncing in his chair, clapping his hands. "What is it, a boy or a girl? What are you calling it? What colour is it?"

"A boy, Rage, and black," I tell him. I can't stop myself grinning. "He's so cute."

"Can I come see him? Pretty please?"

"As soon as he settles in, Em."

"Who's going to look after him while you're at college?" Linds asks.

"Brian bought an animal crate to put him in. It's big enough for a bed, and a litter tray, and his food bowls, and there's still room for him to play. Once he gets used to me and the flat, I'll leave him free. There's not a lot he can damage."

"Well, if you ever need a kitty-sitter, I'm right here," Em says.

"Why, Em, I'd never have put you down as a pussy lover," Mel smirks, earning an exasperated shove from Linds.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After Deb has stuffed us fuller than the turkey, we collapse into chairs while Vic hands out the obligatory egg-nog, whether we want one or not. Even Brian doesn't escape. The only one excused is Gus.

Deb and Vic hand out the presents, which have been piled under the tree. Everyone has a small heap; except for Brian, who of course neither gives nor receives, except to, and from, Gus. Oh, and except for the traditional Jumbo box of condoms that Michael always gives him, wrapped and ribboned.

My presents all seem quite large.

"Oh, sweetie, it's lovely," Linds gasps when she opens the drawing I've given her. She and Mel hurry over to kiss me. "Our very own Taylor original," Mel says, grinning. "Who knows what it'll be worth one day?"

"And look at this!" Deb squawks, holding up her cartoon. "Look at Emmett's face, here, and Teddy … and Gorgeous Gus … and his Mommies … even you, asshole," she grins, poking at Brian who's peering over her shoulder. "And Vic … Christ, that's the spitting image of him … and … Sunshine, my fucking hair does _not_ look like that…"

Everyone seems to have agreed to buy me things for my place, which is actually a pretty good choice, given my Spartan living arrangements. Emmett has bought me soft, thick white bath towels. Mel and Linds have gone for a range of micro-wave proof dishes, which will be really useful; Michael and Ben have given me a set of coffee mugs.

"Thanks, guys," I tell them. "Now I can stop using the glasses."

"On the contrary, thank _you_," Ben says, coming over and giving me a hug. "This is really great." He holds out the Schaeffer in his right hand, weighing it in his fingers. "It's so solid … such craftsmanship … I can't wait to get some ink and try it."

"Yeah, thanks, Justin." Michael hugs me too. He actually looks a little tearful. "This is … wow, it's just like the night Gus was born. Look, Bri, it's just like us, up on the hospital roof, remember?"

Brian gets up from the floor where Gus is happily playing with wrapping paper and boxes, and comes to see. "Yeah, Mikey. I remember."

My last present is the largest; it feels like material, heavy and soft.

"That's from Vic and me," Deb says, as I begin to unwrap it.

It's a quilt. It's very large. And it's so bright it takes my breath away.

It's made of hundreds of small hexagons in some sheer material like satin, all in varying shades of yellow ranging from the palest lemon, through rich gold to a vibrant marigold orange. The underside is a warm, buttercup yellow fleece. It shimmers like a piece of sunlight lying on my knees.

"Did you make this?" I can't help running my fingers over it.

Deb nods. "It's your Sunshine quilt," she says simply. "It's to keep you warm when winter comes."

I go and put my arms round her.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I catch Brian while he's outside having a smoke. "Here," I say, handing him his present. "Happy Christmas, Brian."

He takes it and his eyebrow quirks up. "More condoms?"

I smile and shake my head. "I would have given it to you yesterday, but I got a little excited and forgot."

I expect a sarcastic comment, but he says nothing. Carefully he takes off the wrapping, and when he sees the Zippo box his other eyebrow goes up too. He opens it, takes out the lighter; studies it. I can see him reading the inscription.

"I hope you don't mind that I put that on," I say, feeling nervous again. "It's not like, um, it's too sentimental or anything, is it?"

Brian doesn't answer. He rubs his thumb across the engraved letters, then snaps the lid back and flicks the wheel with practised ease. The wick flares immediately, bright and steady. It lights his face. "No, Justin," he says at length, smiling at me, "I don't mind. I don't mind at all."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Later, after the good byes and hugs and kisses, Deb walks me to the door, carrying a bag full of snacks for me to take. My arms are full of quilt; Brian is taking the rest of my presents to the Corvette.

"Justin…" she looks at me with her Serious Mom face. "The drawing you gave me … of everybody. I have to tell you there's one thing I don't like about it."

"I know, your hair. Sorry, Deb," I grin.

"You got my hair just fine, and you know it. What I don't like is what's missing."

"Huh?"

"The person you left out?"

"What?" I try to think. "Who did I leave out?"

She leans forward and presses a kiss to my forehead. "You, Sunshine. You."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That night, snuggled under my quilt with Rage curled against my side, I lie awake and fretful.

I'm so fucking confused.

I've tried so hard to make a new life and a new beginning, and yet I can feel myself being drawn back inexorably into the same old ways, the same old habits. And I'm terrified of that: it's the one thing I swore I would never let happen again.

Deb surprised me when she pointed out my absence from the gathering I'd drawn: I had never even thought about including myself, and I guess nothing says more about how much of an outsider I now perceive myself to be. But she expected me to be there, part of her fucked-up little family, and was hurt that I wasn't.

And the others … they were being genuine, weren't they? They'd talked to me, made me laugh, made me feel wanted … not because I was with Brian, but because of _me_. Even Michael had seemed pleased to have me there.

It had felt so damned comfortable … like going home. And even while I'm telling myself, _Resist, Justin, resist; _even while my brain is telling me that I'm only setting myself up for another fall; even then, my heart keeps saying that if something is really so bad for you then it shouldn't feel so _right_, should it?

But then Brian and I had felt so right, too, and look how wrong I was about _that_.

Brian.

However I want to read it, the simple fact is that he put aside his principles and his prejudices, and gave me a present – not only that, but the one _I_ wanted. The perfect gift. Something that will belong to me… something I can love. So I won't be lonely again.

I reach down automatically and smooth Rage's silky fur, and he replies with a faint mew and a sleepy yawn. I find myself grinning like a fool.

Could Daph have been right? Have I been kidding myself that I'm better and stronger, when all that has really happened is that I've slipped so far that I simply don't believe I can be loved, that I can't love?

Have I turned into Brian … the old Brian?

Fuck, I can't get my head around this. I wish to God there was someone I could talk to, someone who could give me a different perspective … someone impartial.

And just like that, the answer comes.

There _is_ someone. Henry.

TBC


	46. Chapter 46

VERSE TWO Chapter Twenty-Six

HENRY

"Justin? Justin, is it really you?"

"Yeah, it's me." I can hear the smile in his voice.

"Good Heavens, what a lovely surprise." It certainly is: both lovely, and a surprise. "How are you, my dear boy?"

He's silent for a moment. "Hasn't Brian been reporting? I know he promised to."

"Of course he's kept in touch. But only to tell me that you seem more settled … that you're back at college again, and that you've started painting. Which, by the way, I'm thrilled about."

"Did he tell you that he wants us to get back together?"

"Well, of course he did! He told me that before he came to Baltimore."

There's a longer silence. "He did?" He sounds surprised.

"Do you think for one minute I'd have told him where you were if I hadn't been convinced of his intentions?"

"I don't know," he sighs, sounding so sad and unsure that I find it hard to believe I'm talking to the same assured, confident lad I'd met nine months ago. "I don't know anything anymore."

Oh, dear. Something is obviously bothering my little friend; something bad enough to have warranted his calling _me._ I settle myself in my armchair, prepared for a long chat. "I told you that if there were ever any way I could be of assistance to you, then I wouldn't let you down. That offer still stands."

This silence is so long I'm beginning to think he's hung up, but eventually he speaks again.

"Why did you tell Brian where I was?"

Well, that's easy. "Because on even such short acquaintance it was perfectly clear that you were from a good background, and that you had absolutely no business risking yourself in the way that you were. You were throwing yourself away, and I wasn't prepared to let that happen."

"Why? Because you like playing the Good Samaritan?"

"No. Because I liked you."

"Why would you like me?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you don't know me!"

"Certainly not as well as I'd like to. But I judge as I find, Justin. Even though you made sure that our relationship remained strictly professional, you were never completely able to suppress the person beneath the façade. Your intelligence, your manners. Your humour, your tact. Your kindness. Of course I liked you."

"So how did you track down Brian?"

I take a deep breath. "I pried." I swallow hard. I still don't feel proud of the way I'd betrayed him. "I apologise unreservedly. But I was afraid that something was very wrong. It seemed obvious that something had happened in your past … something so traumatic that you would take any risk rather than go home … something that gave you the worst nightmares I have ever witnessed. Something that had destroyed your future as an artist. So one night, while you were asleep, I went through your things. I found your sketches of Brian and a bus ticket from Pittsburgh. That's how I knew where to start looking."

"But you didn't even know my name."

"No, but I do know a retired detective, and he traced Chris Hobbs without any trouble at all. And as soon as I read the newspaper reports about the assault and saw the photos of the two of you, as well as one of Brian, then it was just a question of putting two and two together."

"If you knew who I was, why didn't you contact my family? Why Brian?"

I remind myself that honesty is the best policy. "Because I was afraid that you had been abused, in one way or another. And from what my friend and I uncovered, we thought your father may have been involved."

"_What?"_ His voices rises incredulously. "You thought my _Dad_ might have been abusing me?"

"We suspected someone had. Justin, please remember we only had the baldest facts to go on. Something terrible had happened to you. We knew your parents had divorced after you were attacked, and you yourself told me that your father had thrown you out when he discovered you were gay. I wasn't prepared to tell him where you were until I was certain he didn't pose a risk to you. And of course, the same applied to Brian."

I expect him to explode again, but he asks quietly, "And what convinced you that he didn't?"

"To begin with, nothing but gut feeling. I knew he'd taken you in after you were released from hospital and that he'd paid for your college tuition. Your mother obviously trusted him with you. But I suppose in the end it came down to the way you'd sketched him … how much love shone through every single one. That, and the way you called his name when you were dreaming. It wasn't fear I heard, Justin. Not of him"

"Then why didn't you just call him? Why go all the way to Pittsburgh to see him?"

"Because I wanted him to give me _his_ story face to face, so that I could tell if he was hiding anything. So that I could see what, if anything, you meant to him."

"And did you?"

"If I hadn't been completely and utterly convinced that he had only your welfare at heart, I would have turned round and come home and tried to come up with another plan."

"So he convinced you how?" he demands. "By telling you how much he adored me and couldn't live without me? By telling you what a perfect boyfriend he was? The man who doesn't even believe in relationships?"

"On the contrary, by confessing how absolutely vilely he'd treated you. How he'd constantly pushed you away, how he'd humiliated you … even how he seduced the lad you were seeing, and how you walked in on them. He didn't have to tell me how much he adored you … that was obvious, as much by the depths of his regret as his relief at hearing you were safe. And by the fact that, even with you gone, he'd taken steps to help himself; so that, if he ever did meet you again, he might have the chance to do things differently."

He's silent again. I picture him chewing his lip, thinking.

"Justin, why did you ring me?"

"Because I don't know what to do. Everybody keeps telling me how much Brian's changed, and how I ought to give him another chance, but how can I?"

I feel a sudden anger. If Brian's been lying to me … "Why, has he given you reason to doubt him?"

"No!" It's almost a wail. "That's the trouble! He's been perfect … absolutely perfect … he even bought me a fucking kitten for Christmas!"

I can't help but smile, despite his evident distress. "Then what is the problem?"

"I'm scared," he whispers. "My best friend Daphne told me she thought I was still suffering from PTSD and that's the reason I blame myself for so much … the reason I think no-one cares about me. She says I've got low self-esteem issues because of the way my Dad rejected me, and she thinks Brian just re-enforced that, and now I won't let him get close because my head's still fucked up!"

"She sounds like a very wise friend," I say softly.

"But what if she's wrong! What if I'm right, and Brian's only acting like this because he's always so fucking determined, and he's set his mind on getting me back and won't stop until he does … and then what if he just gets bored again, as he will, and kicks me off a fucking cliff again so he can prove he's still Brian Fucking Kinney! What then?"

I take a moment to process his colourful terminology. "Justin, you've asked me a great many questions and I've answered them as truthfully as I can. Now let me ask you something; why can't you believe that Brian does love you?"

"Because he never came."

His voice is so quiet that I think I've mis-heard him. "He never what?"

"Never came to see me. At the hospital. Never once, not after he knew I was going to live. Never called, never wrote; not for three fucking months. So he can't have loved me, can he?"

Oh. This could be very, very bad.

"Is that what you were told, Justin?"

"It's what I know," he snaps.

"I'm sorry, but you couldn't be more wrong. He came to see you all the time."

His shock registers through his silence; when he finally speaks his voice is icy. "You're the one who's wrong. I don't know who said that to you, but they were lying…"

"Brian told me himself."

"Then _he's_ the fucking liar!" Justin yells. "And everything he's told you _is_ a lie, because I was fucking there and I know!"

"He came while you were asleep, Justin," I tell him gently. "Every single night until you were discharged."

"I don't believe you," he says defiantly, although I can hear his voice tremble.

"Then you must talk to your mother," I say.

TBC


	47. Chapter 47

VERSE TWO Chapter Twenty-Seven

JUSTIN

Waiting for Mom to arrive is just about the hardest thing I've ever done. I've been fretting over what Henry said for days, waiting for her and Molly to get home after New Year; I don't know whether I'm pissed or scared or nervous; I don't know whether to believe Henry's words or not.

I don't know which is worse.

I could have put myself out of my pain and just called her but, like Henry said, I want to look in her eyes when I ask her.

Has she lied to me for a year and a half? Has she?

I haven't faced Brian yet; I haven't dared. I know that if I do, I won't be able to keep the same question inside. And I want to know the truth before I confront him.

So I cried off New Year, saying I'd promised to spend it with Daph. He'd sounded puzzled and disappointed, but hadn't pushed me; it seems he's still doing the new, considerate, almost-conventional boyfriend thing. So I did what I said and spent New Year with Daph, and got totally wasted and hysterical; she ended up stuffing my cell down her bra so I couldn't call Brian and make even more of a drunken fool of myself.

At least the resulting hangover took my mind off the problem for a while.

Anyway, my nerves are wound up tighter than a virgin ass; and when I finally hear Mom's knock I nearly trip over a chair getting to the door.

"Happy New Year, sweetheart!" she says, looking flushed and happy and altogether too young in her fluffy blue Angora beret. She gives me a hug and a kiss, and hands me an envelope. "Nan and Grandpa send their love, and they asked me to give you this. They wanted to get you something for the flat, but they weren't sure what you needed so I told them a cheque would probably be best. Then you can spend it as you want."

She puts down her bag, taking off her hat and gloves as she speaks, unwinding her scarf. I watch as she unzips her jacket and takes it off, laying it neatly over the back of the settee. "Molly had such a good time … she really didn't want to go, but she perked up as soon as she met the neighbours' son … twelve years old and cute as they come. Then she didn't want to come home!" She laughs gaily and sits down, and Rage immediately comes bouncing over to investigate. "Oh my Lord, Justin, you've bought a kitten!"

"No," I tell her quietly, "Brian gave him to me."

"Brian?" She looks up in surprise. "Goodness, I'd never have guessed." She glances down as Rage tries to climb up her ski-pants. "No, sweetie, don't do that."

I put down my grandparents' card on the coffee table and detach the kitten from her leg. I pop him into his crate and close the door, and he mews crossly at me and starts climbing the wire mesh. When he reaches the top he stays there, hanging on with tiny, needle-tipped claws, glaring at me defiantly.

I turn back to my mother.

"So, what did you want to talk to me about?" she asks brightly.

I don't sit, but stand looking down at her. I take a deep, calming breath.

"I wanted to ask you a question."

Something in my voice or expression must have got through to her, because her smile fades a little. "Justin … what is it? Is something wrong?"

"You tell me, Mom. Is there?"

She's frowning now. "I'm sorry, darling, I don't understand…"

"Brian, Mom. Tell me about Brian."

Her confusion grows. "Brian? What could I know about him?"

"Tell me whether it's true or not. Whether he came to the hospital every fucking night after I was bashed, and that you knew and you never told me. Or tell me that it's a lie."

She doesn't have to answer; her face says everything.

She looks down at her feet. "How did you find out?" she asks softly.

"Doesn't matter. What _does_ matter is why the fucking hell you thought it wasn't something I had the fucking right to know?"

Mom nervously twines her fingers, looking like a little girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She still doesn't look at me. "Brian didn't want you finding out…"

"Bullshit, Mother!" I yell. "You didn't say anything because_ you_ didn't want me knowing!" I can feel angry, frustrated tears building, and I blink them furiously away. I will _not_ cry in front of her. "It suited you just fine to have me thinking that Brian didn't care … that he wasn't interested … the same way you told him to stay away from me when I got out!"

She looks up at that, and I can see tears in her own eyes. "Sweetheart, I was only trying to do what was best for you…"

"No, Mom! You were doing what _you_ thought was best for me! Blaming Brian for everything, and thinking that all you had to do to get me over my stupid schoolboy crush was to keep me coddled away at home and wrap me up in fucking cotton wool for the rest of my life!"

"That's what Moms do," she says with a small smile.

"Doesn't make it right!" I snap back.

"Justin … please," she says imploringly. "I know I misjudged a lot of things … especially Brian. But at the time I still very much regarded you as a child … and more importantly, a damaged, hurt child. Of course I wanted to keep you safe. And if I over-reacted to the situation, I apologise. God knows, I've tried to make amends since."

"But not by telling me the truth? Mom…" I sit beside her and take her hand. "Can't you see that all this time, I thought Brian had deserted me. That he'd gone back to his old life as soon as he had the opportunity … that he was glad to have forgotten me … can't you see how much that fucking hurt?"

"I'm sorry," she sobs, diving for the bag at her feet and scrabbling for a tissue; she dabs at her streaming eyes. "I thought Brian would have told you … I just assumed you knew…"

"Assumed," I repeat angrily. "I think you're lying, Mom. You knew fucking well how insecure I was after I left hospital … did you honestly believe that keeping your mouth shut about something that important would help?"

"Brian never wanted anyone to know," she says defensively. "I would never have found out if the night-nurse hadn't accidentally let it slip when I came in one morning. I think he had this idea that if he didn't come to see you then you'd work all the harder to get out and see _him_." She tries a small, tearful smile. "And you have to admit, it worked."

Worked. Yeah, it had fucking worked alright. My mind goes back to those weeks of torture spent with the physio; pushing, pushing, pushing myself for hours on end until pain and frustration and exhaustion mastered me and I'd throw a major tantrum. My only thought:_ Why? Why doesn't he come?_ Those had been the first and last words in my head, day after day after fucking day.

Three months of Cold Turkey until I could get my fix again.

"Even if I accept that you felt justified then, why haven't you told me since? Once you figured out Brian wasn't the child molester you thought he was? You've had enough opportunity!" I'm not letting her off, here.

"How could I?" she asks imploringly. "Justin … I told you I'd misjudged. And if you want me to be honest … I was a little ashamed of the way I acted back then. I … I didn't know how you would react … and as time went on, I suppose it was easier just to let things go. To let sleeping dogs lie. Easier just … not to say anything." She looks at me, her eyes wet and wide and pleading. "Haven't you ever felt that way about something … something you've done that you're not proud of?"

And it comes to me that I have, of course. I'd said more or less exactly the same thing to Daph when she'd reamed me out about not letting her know I was okay when I was in Baltimore. Because even if I wasn't ashamed of working as an escort, then or now, the truth is I knew the people who cared about me _would_ be … and do I want my Mom to be ashamed of me, in a way that she'd never been when I came out? Molly? Deb? Linds and Mel?

The answer to that, of course, is no. Let sleeping dogs lie, indeed.

Which kind of makes me a hypocrite.

"Does anyone else know?" I ask.

Mom blows her nose and then shakes her head. "Not unless Brian told someone, and I hardly think that's likely, do you? Unless he told Michael."

No. Michael wouldn't have been able to resist letting _that_ little detail slip, as another example of how badly I'd betrayed Brian's devotion by cheating on him with Ethan.

It had been Brian's secret … until he told Henry.

"Justin…" Mom's voice cuts into my thoughts. "Please, darling. I was so worried about you after you came home … you seemed so distant, so_ hopeless_. But then you got your own place and went back to college, and you seemed so much happier. So much more relaxed. Please don't start shutting me out again … not over something like this. Not over a stupid mistake I made a long time ago."

And she's my Mom. She's loved me the very best she can, every single day of my life; and if she's misjudged things, well, she's not the only one.

"It's okay, Mom," I say, putting my arms round her and hugging her; "and I'm sorry I swore at you: I shouldn't have done that. But if I'd have known … things might have been different. _I_ might have been different."

She hugs me back fiercely. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart," she whispers.

TBC


	48. Chapter 48

VERSE TWO Chapter Twenty-Eight

BRIAN

"What?" I bark into the intercom when the buzzer goes off. I'm working on a new presentation for Eyeconics and there's something wrong with the board … not in the concept, or the layout, or the photography … just _something_… "This had better be good."

"It's me."

I feel a warm surge of pleasure and surprise as my mood lightens immediately. "Hey! Come on up."

I haven't seen Justin since Christmas, and the last time I spoke to him he'd sounded decidedly off, although he'd been trying hard to hide it. I'd expected to spend New Year with him … had been looking forward to marking it as a new beginning for both of us. Instead he'd given me some line about Daphne having broken up with her boyfriend and needing a shoulder to cry on; fuck, it might even have been true – but there had been something in his tone that told me it wasn't. I'd tried not to be too pissed about it – after all, he doesn't have to say yes every time I ask to see him – but I'd sure as hell been disappointed.

Since then, he's been laying low and not answering his cell. I'd been thinking of getting hold of Daph to find out what was on his mind this time; but hey, here he is of his own free will, so things can't be too bad, right?

I leave the door open for him and go back to look at the Eyeconics board again. I prop it up on the table and step away so I can see it from a distance. I hear Justin's steps behind me. "I'm glad you're here," I say without turning. "You can help me figure out what's wrong with this fucking board. Is the font too big … or what?"

He doesn't answer. "Justin?" I turn my head.

Not good. Not good at all. I've seen that look too many times not to recognise it; that snap in his eyes, that defiant tilt to his chin. He's pissed. At me.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me?" he demands.

I wonder which of my many non-disclosures he's talking about, and how high it rates on his outrage scale. "Tell you what?" I query carefully.

He takes a step closer. He hasn't taken his coat off. He's not staying. Must be pretty bad.

"Why didn't you tell me that you came to the hospital to see me? Every. Fucking. Night." He punctuates each word with a finger poked in my chest.

Of all the things he might have asked, _that_ one never occurred to me. For once in my life, I can't think of a single thing to say.

All my pleasure at seeing him has just nose-dived. "You've been talking to your Mom," I sigh.

"Yes, but she didn't tell me. Henry did."

I stare at him, stunned. "Since when do you talk to Henry? And how?"

Justin looks at me like I'm an idiot. "He was my client, remember? I've still got his number."

I don't want to be reminded about that, thank you very much. "So what, you rang him up, this guy you couldn't even bring yourself to speak to the last time you saw him … this guy you said betrayed you … you just called him out of the blue for a little chat, to catch up on old times, did you, Sunshine?"

He plants his fists on his hips and glares at me. "No, Brian. I rang him because I wanted to find out what you'd said to persuade him that you loved me. That you wanted me back."

"I've already told you the reasons," I whisper.

"I wanted to hear it from him. And he told me. And then he asked me why _I _couldn't believe it. So I told him … that you'd never come to see me in the hospital. Which meant you _couldn't_ have loved me … no matter what you said." There's a wistful note in his voice as he says this, but immediately he gets angry again. "And that's when he said that I was wrong, that you'd come to see me every night … he seemed surprised I didn't know. And until I got the truth out of Mom, I didn't fucking believe it!"

Fuck. I remember how I'd bared my proverbial breast to Henry, desperate to convince him to help me get Justin back; prepared to do whatever it took to show him how sincere I was. I'd never expected Justin to contact him again … I'd certainly never expected my honesty to come back and bite me in the ass. "Justin…" I step towards him, but he backs away, so I don't go any closer. "If you want me to confess every thing you don't know about me, we'll be here until _next_ Christmas. I never saw any reason to tell you."

"Why?" he yells. "Why the fuck did you let me believe you didn't care?"

I rub my hand across my face, pushing away the thought of how much I need a shot of Beam right now. How much it would help. But instead I concentrate on telling him the truth.

"Not for the reason your mother thinks. Not because I was giving you Tough Love. It was because I was too fucking scared to see you."

He drops his eyes. "Because my face was a mess?"

"What? Don't be fucking stupid, of course not."

"Then _why_?" He's looking at me again, and the pain in his face makes me feel sick.

"Because I blamed myself for it happening, every bit as much as your mother did. And I was fucking terrified of seeing the same blame in your eyes, every time I looked at you. I couldn't have lived with it."

His face twists in confusion. "Brian, I've never _once_ blamed you for the Prom … you know that…"

"I do now. I didn't then. And I was too much of a coward to risk it. I wanted to remember the last time you looked at me … when all I could see in your eyes was how happy you were … how happy I'd made you. How much you loved me."

Justin stares at me silently, and just for a second I think it's okay. Then his expression hardens, and so does his tone. "You didn't want to take the risk," he repeats sarcastically. "So instead, you let me believe you didn't give a shit. Instead, I had to ask Mom and Deb and Linds where you were, and watch their faces when I did; seeing how sorry they were for me but trying to hide it. Listening to their stupid excuses for you until even I got the picture and stopped fucking asking. Instead, I had to put up with all their sympathy and fussing when all I wanted to do was scream and throw things. Instead, I had to go through three fucking months alone, needing you more than I guess I ever will again … never knowing what I'd done that was so fucking bad you couldn't even extend me the common courtesy of a get-well-soon card. That's how much you cared."

Christ. How the fuck can I put this right? I'd always known I'd hurt him, back then … I remember Linds telling me how he'd constantly asked for me, not knowing how she was twisting the knife of guilt in my gut with every word. But I'd been a different person then … harder, more selfish. More able to lie to myself.

I almost wish I were the same guy again. Maybe then - watching him struggle with tears, listening to his voice catch – maybe then it wouldn't hurt so much.

"Justin … I've told you and told you. I've changed. After the Prom, I was too much of a coward to face you … to face _anyone._ So I handled it the way I always did … by running away and letting everyone think I didn't give a fuck. Because I told myself that as long as I was there at the worst times … at night, when you were stuck alone in some fucking nightmare … as long as I was there for you _then_, then it didn't matter that you didn't know – in fact, it was better that you didn't. I was no good for you. Your life was ruined because of me, and the sooner you got over me, the better. But I _was_ there, and I figured that was enough. I know better now."

"So you keep saying."

"I thought we were wiping the slate clean. That's what you said. This is old history, Sunshine."

"If you'd have simply told me that one fucking fact, there wouldn't be half as much old history as there is!" he yells. "Maybe there wouldn't even have been a slate to wipe clean in the first place!"

He stamps over to the door and then looks back at me. "And the lettering on the board's wrong. It should be orange, not blue. Something fucking hot!"

It's not possible to slam the loft door, but he makes a pretty good attempt anyway.

I sink down on the couch. How bad is this? I don't know. Because if this is where it all comes from – his insecurity, his self-doubt, his inability to believe I care enough about him to change – then finding out that I hadn't deserted him, hadn't forgotten him … that's got to be a good thing, right? It's certainly sparked a reaction … he was hurting alright, but it had provoked anger instead of the usual _well, it was my own fault so I guess I deserved it_ bullshit reaction. And the way he stood there and fronted me, not backing down, calling me on my shit … well, that was pure Sunshine.

I glance over at the Eyeconics board and think: _Orange. Something hot._

Little twat.

TBC


	49. Chapter 49

VERSE TWO. Chapter Twenty-Nine

JUSTIN

"Em, I don't know if I want to go to Babylon. It's been a long time."

"All the more reason to dig out those dancing shoes and polish them up! Remind all those hot men what they've been missing!"

I'm distracted by Rage, who's playing tigers under Debbie's quilt; pouncing out to attack the laces on my sneakers and then diving back under cover. I watch the small lump burrowing around like one of those wormy things in _Tremors _and find myself grinning. I do that a lot around this little guy.

"Anyway, it's my birthday," Emmett says, cunningly play his trump card. "You know I'll be missing Teddy … and Michael's no fun anymore … I'll be all alone…" his voice tails off pathetically.

"Oh God, Em, turn off the waterworks. Alright already, I'll come."

"Yay, Baby, I knew I could depend on you! We'll have such a good time!" I can hear him bouncing. "I'll meet you at Woody's at nine. And wear something fabulous! Ta ta!"

I close my cell and go back to playing with Rage, scrabbling at the quilt and letting him attack my fingers from underneath, careful not to let him get too good a grip with his claws and teeth: I learned early on how sharp_ they_ are. I realise that I'm going to have to find a way to screen off the part of my loft where I paint - I'm sure that a manic kitten running up my leg won't really be conducive to the creative process, any more than finding tiny pawprints on my wet canvasses will, and I don't want to shut him in his crate more than I have to. He's growing so quickly. Perhaps I could get a pair of those retractable room dividers … I could put Nan and Grandpa's money towards it.

"You're impacting on my lifestyle, little man," I tell him, laughing: and then I remember Brian comparing me to a Labrador puppy and realise what he must have meant. For me, the advantages of Rage's company far outweigh the disadvantages: I wonder if Brian felt the same way about me?

I'm still pissed at him. I am. Long ago - when I was that other kid - I'd never had the slightest doubt that, no matter what he said or did, Brian loved me. It was only a question of time until he realised it, and then we'd be together. For ever. After I got bashed, I never felt the same way again … all Brian's kindness, his patience, his care, had never quite silenced the nagging voice in my head telling me that it was only pity and guilt; because otherwise he would never have left me so alone. In my deepest need, he walked away. I'm not saying that my knowing he kept a secret vigil for me would have changed things, would have avoided Ethan and everything that happened since, but at least I wouldn't have constantly doubted Brian's motives. At least I wouldn't have felt so completely fucking _worthless. _And maybe if I'd believed that he loved me and wanted me around, then I might have had the confidence to tell him how unhappy I was: to have had the balls to stand up for myself instead of trying to force him into commitments and assurances he wasn't capable of making. So yeah, I'm still pissed.

But the thing is, I can kind of see it his way, too; or at least, from the way his mind-set worked then. How closed up he used to be. How he couldn't show weakness to anyone except Michael – not if his life (or anyone else's) depended on it. How maintaining the ethos of the Great God Kinney, Stud of Liberty Avenue – no excuses, no apologies, no regrets – had been his sole life-purpose.

He's been nothing but honest with me since I came back to Pittsburgh, about his emotions, his desires, his actions, everything. He listens, and not only to me. He's not afraid to ask for advice anymore, even if he doesn't take it. He doesn't goad me now, or try to put me down in any way. He's stopped the constant sniping about love and relationships and boyfriends: maybe his opinions about those things haven't changed, but he's certainly learned to voice them with more tact.

He _is_ different; and I don't have the right to blame him for things he did then, anymore than he'd blame me for having snitched the chocolate cake and telling Mom it was Molly, when I was ten.

I remember how it used to feel, dancing with him at Babylon. How the music, and the voices, and the faces would fade into the background until there was nothing in the whole fucking world except the heat of our bodies grinding together, the warm breath on our necks as we murmured filth into each other's ears – that, and the never-ending _thumpa-thumpa_ that eventually became indistinguishable from our own heartbeats.

Maybe Emmett's right. Maybe it's been too long.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I'm amazed at how many people greet me as I push through the crowd with Emmett behind me. Everywhere I see guys grinning at me, slapping my back (more often my ass), kissing my cheek, hugging me. Offering numbers and blow jobs.

"See?" Em cries when we finally make it to the bar. "They're so pleased to have you back again! It just hasn't been the same without that delectable little tush of yours shaking around on the dance floor!"

I order two Cosmos from Steve, the bartender, but when I pull out my wallet to pay he waves me off. "On the house, Justin. It's good to see the King back." He gives me a flirty wink.

"Happy Birthday, Em," I say, raising my glass to him.

"Baby, you being here is the best present I could have had," Emmett tells me earnestly and a little tearfully.

I look around. "Are any of the others coming?"

"Michael promised to bring Ben."

"What about Brian?"

"Sweetie, it's quite rare for him to grace us with his presence nowadays. And you know better than anybody how he feels about birthdays! So no, I shouldn't think so."

I don't know if I'm disappointed or relieved.

"Come on, birthday boy." I drain my Cosmo and take his hand. "Show me how much you've missed me."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

God, it's so good to dance again. So good to lose myself in the music … in the heat …just to let go of everything. Emmett leaves me to join Michael and Ben when they turn up later, but I don't lack partners: I'm surrounded by men of all shapes and colours vying for my attention, and for the first time I realise how much Brian's presence had acted as a deterrent to all but the most determined admirers. Now they see me as available and they're eager to prove themselves.

Of course, none of them are Brian: none of them smell the same, or feel the same, or taste the same. None of them give me the same aching hard-on by simply pressing his hips into me and nibbling my earlobe the way Brian used to. None of them move like him. None of them ooze sex like him.

But it's flattering: and whether it's their attention or the drinks or just the high of dancing again, I'm starting to feel better about myself than I have for a long time. And I realise that it's been a long time since I fucked anyone – too fucking long. So when I find myself pressed up against this totally hot brunette with a wicked glint in his dark eyes, I smile and take him by the belt, and lead him towards the back room.

BRIAN

I shoulder my way towards the bar, where I can see Emmett's head towering above the crowd. I hadn't intended to come, but what the fuck? Justin's still pissed at me, I don't have anything better to do, so I figured I may as well come and drink to the Honeycutt anniversary, and get an itch scratched at the same time. As I get closer I see Mikey and the Professor are there too, so I sneak up and throw an arm round my best friend's shoulders. "Surprise!"

Mikey jumps about a mile in the air, which I think is pretty funny until I see his face. Surprise, indeed.

"Well, don't all look so fucking pleased to see me."

"Bri, no, it's fabulous that you've come," Emmett says, hiding his confusion behind one of those pink things he drinks. "We just didn't think that you would!"

I'm still looking at Mikey. "There's only two reasons I can think of why you'd have an expression like that. Either you're constipated, or there's something you don't want me to know."

Mikey gulps. "Bri, promise you won't freak out or anything."

I give him the look, the one that always gets him.

"Justin's here."

"He is?" Fuck, the night's getting better. I turn, scanning the dancers for his blond head, but I can't see him. I glance at Mikey again, and his eyes give it away.

My brain tells me to just let it go; but unfortunately my feet seem to be operating independently; even though I know it's a really bad idea, I find myself heading for the back room.

I don't have to search for long before I spot him in one of the recesses, fucking some trick who's being way too vocal.

You know why I never wanted a relationship? Because I never wanted to feel like this.

I've spent months trying to get him back, months missing him, months aching for him. I've reached the point of dependence where nothing else will do, no simple trick can satisfy. And now, just when I'm beginning to think I'm making headway, I find him here. Screwing some other fucker.

I think if it had been the other way round, if I'd have walked in on Justin taking it up the ass, I think I might have lost it. I think I might just have dragged the guy off and belted him.

As it is, I can't tear my eyes away, even though I'd probably stick forks in them right now if I had any handy. Because I can still appreciate Justin's beauty: the way the shadows paint his skin, the soft fall of his hair, the sinuous undulations of his slim hips. And I can't help but be aroused by it.

But fuck, that just makes it worse. It should be_ me_ there with him, not some fucking trick. I hate it, I hate it ... it hurts too much, and I force myself to turn away and get out of there. And as I walk back into the club, feeling sick and angry and empty, I find myself wondering; _Is this how he felt? All the times he walked in on me?_

Maybe I understand a little better, now.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

By the time Justin joins us, I've got myself a little more under control. At least, my hands have stopped shaking, Mikey's stopped asking if I'm okay, and I haven't thrown up.

So yeah, in control.

"Brian," he says, with what I swear is a pleased smile, "I didn't know you were here!"

"Obviously," I reply. I can't fucking help it.

His smile falters. "What's up?"

I throw back my shot. "Looked to me like you were."

He blinks. "You were in the back room? I didn't see you."

"Probably because you were otherwise occupied."

He frowns, his brows drawing together. "Like you weren't?"

"No. Actually I wasn't. I was just part of the audience." My brain is yammering to shut the fuck up, but my mouth seems to have joined the revolt my feet started, and just keeps going. "I thought you didn't partake it such salacious activities any more. I didn't think you approved of fucking in public."

"Since when did I say that?" he demands.

"It's what you implied. That you couldn't handle my tricking."

His eyes flash dangerously. "I told you I never expected you to stop, or even wanted you to. I just didn't want it in my own home … in my face."

"Like it was for me, just now?" I yell at him.

"I didn't even know you were here!" he screams back. "And what, you're telling me you've stopped? That you haven't tricked since I came back, because that's a fucking lie!"

I suddenly realise that everyone's heads are swivelling from side to side like they're watching tennis, their expressions identically stunned. Christ, I'm standing in the middle of Babylon having a full-blown screaming match with Justin, and my reputation is never going to be the same again.

I grab his wrist and drag him out of earshot. "No. I haven't stopped," I growl at him. "I told you, monogamy and marriage are not ever going to be an option. I won't promise you shit I can't keep."

"I don't want either," he snaps back. "I'm nineteen, for God's sake, I'm too young to settle down, remember?" He twists his arm angrily out of my grasp. "I don't want a fucking white picket fence and 2.5 children! I'm pretty confident I never will! So what the fuck is your problem?"

"Maybe I just don't like seeing you act like a fucking whore!" I hiss.

Justin's face freezes, but his eyes are blazing. He straightens his back and his chin comes up. "Well, you should know better than anybody," he says, and turns and walks away towards the exit.

Did I say that? Fuck, did I?

I'm after him quicker than I can think, grabbing his arm again. "Justin … Jesus, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it was just words, I was angry…"

He removes my hand deliberately. He looks at me quite calmly, and that frightens me more than his anger did. "I don't want to talk to you right now, Brian. We'll only make it worse. Just leave me alone, please."

And I do, because I don't know what else I can say to him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.

TBC


	50. Chapter 50

VERSE TWO Chapter Thirty

JUSTIN

"I mean, can you believe the fucking guy?" I demand, pacing up and down Daph's living room. "Having the nerve to start bitching at me in front of everybody! Calling _me_ a whore for tricking! He's lucky I didn't punch him!"

"And what would that have solved?" Daph sighs. I can hear she's getting a little tired of my ranting; I guess I can't blame her, it's been going on for a while.

"It would have made me feel better. He tells me he's changed, and then he goes and pulls something like that!" I stop myself from flailing my arms around extravagantly and flop beside her instead.

She props her elbow on the back of the couch, leans her cheek on her fist and gazes at me. "You know that old saying about being careful of what you wish for in case you get it?"

I roll my eyes at her. "Yeah. So?"

"Well, you wished for a boyfriend who gets jealous. Looks like you've got one. Suck it up, Justin."

I stare at her. "What?"

"You heard. You said Brian never cared about you fucking other guys … well, I'd say it's pretty clear that now he does. And that's what you wanted, isn't it? So why are you pissed at him?"

"Hello? He called me a fucking whore! And if that's how he sees me, well, he can go take a hike. I don't want him beating me over the head about Baltimore every time he has a hissy fit."

"Justin, people say things when they're hurt and angry; fuck, we've said horrible things to each other. Remember how weird I got after … well, you know," she says, blushing and looking away. "We didn't speak for like, _weeks_. All those nasty remarks you used to make about my breeder friends. How I called you a spoiled brat when you sulked because your Mom didn't get you a shirt in the _precise _shade you wanted for your birthday…"

"Shut up," I tell her, grinning. "I was fourteen. And you were right, I was a spoiled brat. Anyway, it's hardly the same thing."

"Okay, Brian shouldn't have said what he did. That was out of order. Although he _did_ try to apologise straight away, and that's not like the old Brian either, is it?"

I have to admit, it isn't.

"Think about it, Justin. You've been keeping him dangling all this time, and he hasn't asked for anything. He's been more patient than I can believe, and we both know it can't have been easy for him. He's bent over backwards to make you happy. Then he walks in and finds you fucking some trick in the back room, when you'll hardly even _kiss_ him. Are you really surprised he blew a fuse?"

No. I'm not. I've been in the same situation too many times not to know exactly how he must have felt. I also know that, for Brian, attack is the only form of defence. And having him thrown enough to forget where he was, to publicly acknowledge me – not by fucking me in the back room or at the Baths, but by standing there in front of his friends and saying it - well, that's one of the things I'd always longed for.

"I think maybe you were right, Daph," I say softly. "I'm so fucked up I don't even know what I want anymore."

"You could try talking to Brian's shrink."

"I don't think so." I have memories of Mom's disastrous attempt to have me psychoanalysed, and of the pharmacy of mood adjusting cocktails I'd been prescribed after the bashing, most of which had caused more problems than they'd solved. "I'd rather try to work it out by myself, or with you. And admitting I have a problem is the first step towards solving it, right?"

She grins. "Okay, I'll be the doctor." She picks up a notepad and pen from the coffee table and peers at me over imaginary spectacles. "So, Mr. Taylor, how would you describe your situation?"

I stretch out on the couch and put my hands behind my head, fixing my eyes on the molten orange glow of Daph's lava lamp on the shelf above me. And suddenly the words come pouring out.

"I've suffered from PTSD for more than a year and a half now. Originally it manifested as nightmares, flash-backs and anxiety attacks together with a morbid fear of being touched. I understood this; my doctors told me it was a normal reaction. I was medicated to relieve the symptoms and when they disappeared I thought I was cured.

"I thought everyone pitied me; the staff and students at P.I.F.A., my friends and family … poor little Justin, whose father threw him out because he was gay, whose future was ruined because he got bashed, whose "boyfriend" had only taken him in because he felt responsible for the attack in the first place.

"But _I_ didn't pity Justin; he disgusted me. He was weak and clingy and pathetic … he'd been the catalyst for everything: for stalking Brian, for destroying his family, for provoking Hobbs. For starting things he couldn't deal with. I felt that in many ways Justin deserved all the shit he'd been through; because he'd refused to listen to advice, because he'd been so fucking pig-headed about everything. So immature.

"I didn't want to be like that anymore. I believed that the only way to move forward with my life was to forget the failure I'd been and become someone better. Someone stronger. Somebody_ I_ could respect, who wasn't dependent on anyone's love or pity or charity."

"Somebody like Brian?" Daph asks softly.

"Yeah, I guess. After all, he's been through even more shit than I have, and he's the strongest person I know. If it worked for him, it would work for me."

"Do you still feel like that?"

"In some ways, yeah. I mean, I like having my independence. I like knowing that I can pay my own way, and that I have my own home. I know I'm stronger now than the old Justin could ever have been."

"Don't you think you're kind of hard on him? _I_ think the old Justin had a lot going for him …if he hadn't been so pig-headed and obstinate, he'd never have recovered the way he did. He'd have believed what the doctors told him, that he'd probably never draw again. He'd have given up on Brian and gone home to Mommy."

"You're just biased. You were his best friend."

She gives me a really sappy grin. "No, I'm _your_ best friend, dope! Old Justin, New Justin … as long as you're Happy Justin, I don't care!"

"That's just it, Daph. That's what Brian asked me, the night he told me he wanted to try again. Was I happy? And I couldn't lie and say that I was."

"You were fucking miserable! And everyone could see it but you."

"But I wasn't, Daph. I'd _been_ miserable for months … miserable struggling to get my gimp-hand back, miserable watching Brian closing up on me, miserable knowing I was cheating with Ethan … andeven more miserable knowing he'd cheated on _me_ with Brian! After I left I felt nothing at all, and that was a fucking improvement, believe me!"

"Jesus, Justin." Daph reaches out to touch my knee. "I knew things were bad for you … I didn't think they were _that_ bad."

"It's why I'm so scared of letting Brian close again. I can't stand the thought of going through all that again … and I can't trust myself, Daph. I'm not stupid … I know I'm still suffering from PTSD. I thought that as long as I didn't fall in a heap if I saw marinara sauce then I was okay. I didn't realise how much my perception had changed, both of myself and of the people around me; or how my moods swung from optimism to depression, from confidence to insecurity. I've always been great at reading people, but it was like I'd lost the ability; I'd take a joke for an insult, or mistake kindness for pity, or take inattention as a sleight. My judgement was totally fucked, to the extent that I thought that working as a go-go dancer for a known pervert would solve my financial problems … that I could handle the situation. I was even willing to work as escort, because I didn't feel I had any better options. So when it comes to making life altering decisions, I don't think at the moment I'm best qualified."

"Justin, do you honestly think that I'd have encouraged you to give Brian a second chance if I didn't believe he loved you? I know everybody's told you what a mess he was after you left and yeah, I believed it was at least fifty-percent guilt. But then he pulled himself together, like even _he_ knew he'd gone too far. Like he'd frightened himself. And he started getting help. Whether he did it for you, or Gus, or himself doesn't matter … what counts is that he did it. And I'll tell you something else, Justin, even if you're going to be pissed at me."

I sit up at her tone of voice and study her. She looks embarrassed.

"When Brian brought you back, I don't think you realise how worried we all were. You were so fucking strange, Justin … and Brian was frantic because you wouldn't let him anywhere near you, let alone talk to him. And I didn't know what to do, because _I_ was scared too, scared for you … scared what you might do. So I went to Brian's office and we … talked. About him, about you. And I kind of promised to keep him informed about how you were. That you were eating and taking care of yourself. Shit like that."

"You fucking _spied_ on me?"

She lifts her chin defiantly. "You didn't give me much choice. And I'm sorry, but I didn't know how else to help. And I didn't have anyone else to turn to."

"Christ, Daph. I thought I could trust you!"

"You can trust me to be your friend, and look out for you. What would you have done if I'd been raped or something, and started acting all weird and locking myself away and refusing to see anyone? Saying that it was my fault for being a girl and wearing my skirt too short? That I'd deserved it?"

I know what I'd have done. I'd have dragged her to a doctor by the ear if I'd had to.

"Anyway, we talked a lot, Brian and I. I'd always believed he loved you, ever since the Prom … I just wasn't sure that he could put his past and his fuck-ups behind him and grow up. But the more I talked to him, the more I was convinced that he could. Nothing he's done since has changed my mind."

She means it. Daph has never lied to me, and I know better than to think even for a second that she ever would, especially about Brian. And I've always trusted her judgement.

"I knew Brian loved me. But I figured it was the same way he loved Mikey and Linds … he loved me enough to give me a home and take care of me when Mom couldn't cope. But he didn't_ want_ to live with me … I was just this stupid twink he'd got lumbered with and was trying to do his best for. He'd proved how much he wanted his old life back when he abandoned me at the hospital."

"Except we now know that he didn't!"

"Yeah." I can't help but smile; I carry that knowledge around with me like a talisman. "And now … maybe, yeah. Maybe I think I believe he _loved_ me then ... that he _loves_ me now."

Daph laughs and rolls her eyes. "_Maybe_ you_ think_ you do? Hardly a ringing endorsement, Justin!"

"It's a start." I sigh. "Not that it matters now, anyway."

"Meaning what?"

"Christ, Daph, look at the way we left it! He called me a whore and I walked out"

"Bullshit, Justin! If he _really_ thought that about you, he wouldn't have spent eight months trying to get you back, would he?"

No. He wouldn't have. But it would be typical of our usual lamentable sense of timing for him to decide enough was enough and give up, just when he was beginning to finally convince me.

"So what do I do? I can't just let him get away with calling me what the fuck he likes. For whatever reason."

Daph shakes her head. "Nor should you. He knows he's hurt you. Let him make the first move."

"And what if he doesn't?"

She throws her head back and laughs. "Trust me, he will. But when he does, make up your fucking mind, Justin. If you guys have any chance at a future together, then you have to stop judging each other by your past mistakes. Either trust him or don't. But give him an answer and put the poor guy out of his misery, one way or the other."

BRIAN

"So there you go, Mikey. I blew it big time. Are we surprised?"

I take a despairing pull at my beer and kick myself for the millionth time. I'm totally mortified. After all my promises, both to Justin and myself, how the _fuck_ could I have been cruel enough to say _that_ to him? What the fuck had I been thinking … except that was the whole point. Rational thought process simply hadn't been functioning.

Jealousy, of course. That other emotion I don't know how to deal with. Fuck, I've only experienced it twice; the first, when I found Mikey and Justin sleeping together at the Loft; the second, when I found out about Ian. I dealt with one problem by pissing over it and the other by fucking it. Disasters, both.

Ironic that this time I've fucked up by using words - me, Brian Kinney, who used to claim that words have no meaning at all.

What's really driving me nuts is that raking over that Baltimore shit had been the last thing on my mind. It's something I try not to ever think about, and I certainly wouldn't bring it up in conversation, not unless Justin wanted to. No, that vicious little epithet had just popped out, all on its own. I was hurt; I'd lashed out. And here we are again.

"Bri, I think you're making too big a deal of this. I mean, okay, it sounded kind of bizarre, you reaming out Justin about tricking, but that's exactly what the kid told me he wanted. He said, _I want a boyfriend who at least gets jealous when he sees someone sucking my dick._ And you reacted like he hoped you would. I expect it was just kind of a shock to him."

I look at his hopeful, loyal face and think,_ If only it were that simple, Mikey. If you only knew how badly I've fucked up._ But he doesn't, and he won't, because it's not my secret.

I mean, Jesus. I've done some low things in my life, but calling _Justin_ on pulling a trick, when that had been the main reason I'd gone to Babylon in the first place … like Justin said, I haven't stopped, nor do I mean to. But somehow, seeing him there, after so long … it was such a fucking shock, and I hadn't geared myself for it.

And now I'm fucked.

"No good, Mikey," I tell him. "I'm no good at this shit. I thought buying him a fucking kitten had done it … if you'd have seen his face when he took the lid off and he saw what was inside … he was happy, Mikey, he was so fucking happy. Now I've just gone and hurt him again. I should have listened to you, and let him go when I had the chance. I'll never get it right, whatever I do."

"That is so not true!" His eyes are round and insulted. "Brian, I never believed you could change, even though I used to nag you about it. The truth was, I knew if you ever were going to be with someone, then you _had_ to change … and I wanted you to do that for me. And if you couldn't change for _my_ sake … if you didn't love me enough, or not in the right way, or whatever … then I sure as hell didn't want to believe you'd do it for anybody else. Not Justin, not anybody. But I'm not fourteen anymore, or twenty, or thirty. I've got Ben, and he's everything I've ever wanted. I know that now. I could never have survived living with you."

I smile at him. "I would have broken your heart, Mikey. And I love you too much to let that happen."

He nods, smiling back at me. "But Justin's strong … he took everything you threw at him and then more. And gave it back. And he's still here, despite everything. Brian, everybody saw how Justin was when you brought him home. It just about broke Ma's heart every time she saw him. Remember how he just closed himself up and hardly spoke to anyone? How fucking miserable he was? You didn't give up then; you asked him to give you a chance and you tried and tried, and by Christmas it was almost like old times. And you didn't see him dancing at Babylon … it was like he'd never been away. Like his confidence was back. And you've done that, Bri, _you._ He's still fighting. So don't you fucking dare give up on him now … you've both come too far."

"You've conveniently omitted the fact that most of his insecurities were my fucking fault in the first place."

"Chrissakes!" Mikey does a very passable imitation of his mother's head slap, and I rub the back of my scalp, scowling.

"What the fuck was that for?"

"For being the old Brian and sitting there feeling sorry for yourself instead of going out and fixing it!"

I pull out the Zippo Justin gave me for Christmas and rub my thumb over the simple inscription. "He told me he still loved me," I say softly, remembering how good that moment had felt.

"Then maybe it's time you told him it back."

TBC


	51. Chapter 51

VERSE TWO Chapter Thirty-One

JUSTIN

I stare at my reflection while Emmett stands watching with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "Jesus, Em. What have you done to me?"

"Just a little tweaking to draw attention to your assets."

Having talked me into going to Hearts & Tarts Night at Babylon for Valentines, he'd insisted that I enter into the swing of things and go in costume. I'd thought, what the fuck, may as well hang for a lion as a lamb, so I'd gone for the Tart option. After all, if Brian should decide to turn up, he'd be certain to get the point.

So I'd worn my sluttiest pair of jeans and allowed Emmett to lend me a clingy black Lycra crop-top. But then he'd insisted on adding a few touches – outlining my eyes with a dark kohl pencil and adding translucent gloss to my lips. Then he'd gelled my hair into sort of semi-punk spikes and stood me in front of his full-length mirror to admire his handiwork.

Hence my reaction.

"Baby, you look divine! Just look at the way your eyes stand out now … just like every other man's will when they see you!" Emmett suddenly pauses, his finger to his lips, eyeing me critically.

"What?" I ask nervously.

"Just you wait there, I won't be a tic." He hurries off towards the bathroom.

I turn from side to side, trying to see all angles. I have to admit, I look different … and hot. Definitely hot.

Emmett comes back, and I realise he's got a pair of scissors in his hand.

"Em, there is no way I'm letting you cut my hair."

"It's not your hair I was thinking about, Sweetie," he grins mischievously. "Now don't move."

And before I can do anything sensible he's made a diagonal _Rage_-style slash in the Lycra over my chest. It gapes open and exposes my pierced nipple.

"Emmett, I am not going like this!"

"Oh yes you are!" Emmett cries happily. "Now that I've just ruined a perfectly good top, the least you can do in return is to give me the pleasure of seeing you wear it!"

Christ. Why do I get myself into these things?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Babylon's thumping. I stand at the bar with Emmett, resplendent in red leather pants and white shirt, sparkling with scarlet sequinned hearts. Michael and Ben are with us – Ben's not in costume, but Michael's wearing his _I *Heart* Captain Astro _t shirt. We're all laughing at it when a familiar voice says "Mikey, you are so pathetic."

Brian. Black moleskin pants, wine red shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Impossibly gorgeous.

"Fuck you, asshole," Michael returns amiably. "At least I made the effort."

"You're not the only one." Brian's eyes latch on to me and his gaze trails slowly up and down my body. I'm not sure whether it's in anger or approval, but I'm very aware of the heat in his stare. I hold up my head and refuse to wriggle.

Then he steps past me to the bar and orders a round of shots; as he passes me a glass he leans into me and whispers, "I never thought you were a whore, Justin. Not now. Not ever."

His breath is hot and urgent against my throat, and I shiver, but before I can answer he's gone.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

BRIAN

Fucking Jesus Christ. Fucking Emmett. He'd sworn to make sure Justin came tonight, but I sure as hell hadn't expected … that. And now I'm going to have watch every other guy with his tongue hanging out, ogling him. Well, they can keep their hands to themselves tonight. No back room trips for Sunshine, not if I have any say in the matter.

Christ. That top. I wonder whose idea it was to rip it like that? And the fucking eye make-up … I don't go for that, usually – it's men I want to fuck, not women – but on Justin it doesn't look feminine at all. Just … wanton. Unpredictable. Dangerous.

This plan had better work, because if it doesn't I may as well go home and cut my dick off for all the good it'll be.

I make my way over to the D.J. and put in my request for the Smooch Hour later, steeling myself against the bemused look on his face.

Then all I can do is go back to the bar and wait, and try to ignore Mikey winking and grinning every time he catches my eye.

Christ.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"And for all you lovers out there, here's an old classic from The Righteous Brothers," the D.J. announces. "And it's dedicated to the King of Babylon, from his most devoted subject."

I cross to where Justin's standing, staring at me with his mouth open. My heart is triple-hammering in my chest so hard I think he can probably hear it. I've never been so scared in my life.

"Can I dance with you?"

He nods mutely; I think he must be too stunned to answer. I take his hand and lead him onto the dance floor.

_Oh, my love, my darling, I've hungered for your touch_

_A long, lonely time;_

_But time goes by so slowly and time can do so much,_

_Are you still mine?_

I fold him in my arms and he still fits perfectly. I lean my cheek against his hair and close my eyes as our bodies slowly sway to the old, timeless song.

_Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea;_

_Lonely rivers flow to the sea._

_Lonely breezes sigh, "Wait for me, wait for me;_

_I'll be coming home, wait for me."_

I'm thinking of a different dance, a different song. A different time: a different us. I wonder if he is, too. God, please let this dance end better.

_Oh, my love, my darling, I've hungered for your touch_

_A long lonely time;_

_But time goes by so slowly and time can do so much,_

_Are you still mine?_

_I need your love, I need your love;_

_God speed your love to me._

I bring my lips to his ear. "I can't do anymore, Justin. This is all of it … all of _me_. You wanted me to say it … I will. I love you."

I can feel him tremble, but he stays silent.

I stop dancing and put my hands on his shoulders, holding him away a little so that I can see him. I can't stop my hands shaking. "Didn't you hear? You wanted proof … here it is. In front of all of them … all of fucking Babylon … I love you."

He lets out a small, strangled _Oh!_ His eyes are huge, flickering over my face: searching, yearning. I let him see.

"You mean it." It's not _quite_ a question.

"More than I've ever meant anything in my life." I take a deep breath. " So … is it enough? Am _I_ enough?"

Eternity passes before he moves. And then he begins to smile.

"Yes? You understand?" I feel a stab of hope; so sudden, so sharp, I feel sick.

He nods. "Yes."

"Yes? As in_ yes_ yes?"

His smile gets wider. "Yes."

The blood's roaring in my ears. I think my head might explode. I need to be absolutely clear, now. "Be sure. Because if we do this thing, then I'm never letting you go again. Not unless you can convince me that you don't want me anymore … and even then I won't give up. So if you have any doubt at all, that some day you're going to get sick of having this old geezer following you around, say so now. Because I won't let you leave me again."

His eyes are sparkling. I think he's crying. He's fucking radiant. "I'm sure," he says, and his voice is strong and steady. "Yes."

It's not my head that's exploded, it's my heart. It's turning cartwheels and doing handstands and singing the fucking Star Spangled Banner. I raise both fists over my head. "Yes!" I bellow to the rafters and the heavens beyond. "_Fucking yes!"_

I grab him in my arms and lift him off his feet, spinning him round. And as we lose ourselves in the first true kiss we've shared in eleven fucking months, I'm dimly aware of the sound of cheering and stamping and clapping all around us.

TBC

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_Well, everybody, this is nearly the end. One more chapter and a short epilogue and I'm done._

_Originally I'd only intended a dozen or so chapters – but like Brian and Justin, the story developed a life of its own and just kept growing._

_To all of you who had the patience and the interest to stick with it, and for the many kind and supportive reviews you've taken the trouble to submit, my grateful thanks._


	52. Chapter 52

VERSE TWO Chapter Thirty-Two

BRIAN

It should be frantic. It should be desperate.

It isn't.

I've waited too long not to savour it.

To savour _him_.

My heart is beating so heavy, so hard, I can feel it pulse in my fingertips.

* * *

Amber light bathes him, warming his skin to gold. His hair splays across the pillowcase like a honey-coloured halo.

He blinds me.

I don't mind. If this is the last image I ever see, I couldn't have wished for a better one.

How can this slight, blond body make me want to weep tears of fucking joy?

I have no idea.

But it does.

I lean down to him. He still smells the same. I'm not talking about the cheap Coconut and Orchid shampoo he uses which makes him smell like a fucking Pine Collada – I mean him. Eau de Justin pheromones. Not the soap.

I bury my nose in the crook of his arm, where the scent is truest: healthy, clean, young. Like freshly mown grass or sun-warmed wood, or the spring wind. I draw it deep into my lungs, my heart, my soul; and it purges me: heals me. I feel the fucking buzz go through me, like I've taken a hit of ozone.

I press my mouth against his throat. My tongue registers salt and spice, sweetness and heat: exactly my favourite combination of flavours.

I think Justin probably tastes like Pekin Duck. Or Beef Satay. Or Black Bean Sauce. I lick and chew and suck him accordingly.

Fuck, now I know the reason I love Thai.

Outside the wind howls, throwing gusts of rain against the windows. Here, the only sounds are ours … and if I were ever right about words not being needed, it's now: because here, we don't need words. Here we communicate with sighs and moans, with gasps and grunts of pleasure or pain. With the slap of skin on skin, flushed and sweat-slicked. With hushed whimpers and muffled cries, with single words and whispered names. Our bodies need no instruction; instinct is everything.

My palms caress him, over and over, revelling in texture. The sleek skin of his chest, the downy fuzz of his arms and legs: the silken sweep of his hair: his wiry, curled pubes. My lips against his, tender, barely touching … or mashed against his teeth until I think they're going to split, my tongue twisting and twining with his. The friction of skin on skin. The heat of it. _Our_ heat.

Love and lust, lust and love.

Pleasure so great that pain becomes indistinguishable from it.

Engulfed now, burning; everything burning – skin, breath, heart. Sweat pooling between us. Ragged breathing, ragged heartbeats. Bodies slipping, hands clutching, supporting, readjusting. So intense, so tight – don't know if it's him crying out, or me. Don't know anything anymore. Never want to.

Because this is only place I want to be. The only home I need.

I have no idea how long it lasts. Minutes or hours or days, I have no conception of time any more. I can only ride the sensations, possessed by them, drowning in them: locked into the rhythm of the oldest, sweetest dance of all. And when it finally ends, I'm blind, deaf, and dumb to everything except the coruscation flaring down every nerve fibre in my body … a release so exquisite it's agony … and then I'm falling, falling … sinking into warm, dark water; aware of nothing but the frenzied pounding of my heart, and Justin's sobbing breath against my cheek.

JUSTIN

Dear God. We're sorry for all the times we fucked up. We've paid. I love him, and I believe he loves me. Please let this be right. Let _us_ be right. Amen.

* * *

Later, once the world has come back and my body is my own again, I lie with my head pillowed on Brian's shoulder. "When did you change the lights?" I ask, gazing up at the new fittings.

Brian's lips twist, letting out a thin wisp of smoke. "After some asshole told me orange was hotter than blue."

"Well, it is."

"I thought I'd try for a new ambience. Don't you like it? I'll change it back if you want."

"No, it makes the Loft feel warmer. It was always so fucking cold before."

"If that means you won't need me to heat you up anymore, I'm_ definitely_ changing it back."

I grin and wriggle a little closer. _This _is what I've missed. I once thought I'd never feel this easy companionship again: that I'd never feel this comfortable again. I run my hand over the sheet.

"The bed feels kind of different, too."

Brian holds his cigarette to my lips so that I can take a draw. "It's not the bed, Sunshine. You know I'd rather lose a kidney than my bed. But I had to buy a new set of bedding to match the new décor; and then I figured, what the fuck, I may as well buy a new mattress too."

"More unwarranted Kinney excess?"

"I haven't given up all my vices." He reaches over to stub out his cigarette and then puts both arms round me. "Justin. I told you, I want you to look on the Loft as your home, whether you live here or you don't. In which case this is our bed, and no-one else gets to use it but us."

"Wow. I don't know what to say." I really don't. "Does that mean you're getting a new table … and a couch … and rugs … and a shower?"

Brian sits up abruptly. "I have _never_ fucked anyone else in the shower!"

"Really? Not ever?" I feel absurdly, incredibly pleased.

"No. Never." He actually looks insulted.

"Okay." I snuggle back into his arm.

"Obviously, I'm not going to gut the whole fucking Loft. I just thought the bed was more … I don't know, symbolic or something."

I bite the inside of my lip, hard. _Resist, Justin, resist. You will not fucking laugh…_

Unfortunately he feels me shaking. "Don't you snicker at me, you little shit!"

He pounces on me, which leads to tickling, to wrestling, to … well, you know.

* * *

Brian takes my right hand, spreads my fingers and lightly rubs his thumb across my tattoo. "The Loft isn't the only thing that's been decorated. What about this?"

I feel myself blushing. "I didn't think you'd noticed."

He snorts. "Sunshine, I know every inch of your body as well as my own. Of course I fucking noticed."

"It was something I felt I needed … something to ground me. I was so fucked up…"

"Hey, it's okay. Believe me, I understand the sentiment. And, on the whole, I approve of it. I just don't want it to be necessary between us any more." I feel his lips pressed to the top of my head. "Which is why we need to talk about establishing some new rules."

"Rules?" I must be hearing things. "You've got to be kidding! They didn't work too well last time. Not as far as I was concerned, anyway."

"That's because they were about the wrong things. And based on flawed expectations."

"And these aren't?"

"No, they're about what we can realistically expect from each other. Not so much rules, more like an agreement of what's acceptable behaviour. What we _will_ do, as well as what we won't."

"Okay." I scoot up into the pillows so I'm level with him. "I'm up for it. You go first."

"Okay." He fidgets a little nervously, then takes my hand. "These are things I _won't_ do. First of all, I won't ever make you a promise unless I know I can keep it. So for that reason I can't promise you monogamy, or to give up tricking. Maybe one day I'll be able to offer you that, but right now I can't. It's the same with marriage. I won't marry you, but not because I'm ashamed to, or because it's a dykey thing to do, or any of that shit … it's because I can't make vows to you I don't believe in. That would be a sham, and I don't want anything about us to be sham."

"I wouldn't ask you for any of that," I tell him truthfully. "And I agree about marriage … a vow isn't exactly binding when any cheap-skate lawyer can break it for you."

He grins. "You don't have any desire to be a Stepford Fag like Mikey?"

"Fuck no. I don't think I'd look good in a pinnie."

"No?" One of Brian's eyebrows hikes up and he reaches round to slide his hand lasciviously over my butt. "Not a white one?" he leers. "With frills? Nothing else?"

"Shut up, pervert. And stop that, before we get distracted again. Because, really, I haven't done this for a while, and I don't think I'm up to another round."

"Christ. You should have said." He takes my chin and turns my face up to his. His eyes are dark and worried. "Are you okay? Let me see."

"No, I'm fine. Better than fine. I feel fucking incredible."

He looks doubtful. Then suddenly his face clears. "So if you haven't been putting out on a regular basis, do I have to go through all the trouble of breaking you in again?" He sounds aggravated but his eyes are sparkling; he's pleased as fuck.

"Like that's always been such a chore," I grin, pinching his nipple.

"Brat," he winces, rubbing the tweaked skin.

"So, go on with your _won'ts_, poor baby." I'm enjoying this _way_ too much.

He scowls at me, but gets back to business. "I won't promise never to fuck up again, or never to be an asshole. I've got thirty-one years of self-obsession to deal with. I expect sometimes you'll wish you'd never met me."

"I'm sure."

"Anyway, that's what I won't do. Now, here are the _wills_. I promise that if I _do_ trick, it won't be in your face. This is our home, so I won't bring anyone back here. I expect you to do the same."

That was always given. "What if _we_ want to bring someone back?" I can't help but tease.

Brian grins at me. "Okay, _if we_ want to bring someone back, that's different. As long as it's for the right reasons, and not just because you're afraid of me getting bored."

I grin back at him.

"And I promise that I won't trick for the sake of it. I won't go looking for it."

"Brian…" Christ, I know this is huge for him. I can't help but feel guilty, and uncomfortable. "I don't want you to feel you have to give anything up… not for me."

"It's not for you, twat. Well, not entirely. The truth is, your blond twink perfection has spoiled me. The other guys just don't cut it anymore."

I know how he feels. "Flattery will get you everywhere," I tell him.

"Don't I know it!" he smirks back.

"Anything else?"

"Yes, as it happens. I promise I'll talk to you. I promise I won't shut you out, or push you away. I promise that when I _do _fuck up, I'll never stop trying to fix it. And I promise I'll never, ever give up on us." His voice is quiet and serious, and so is his expression. "And I guess that covers everything."

When he leans down to press his lips to mine, it feels like a pledge. Because he'll never break a promise.

All the walls are gone; there's nothing between us now, I know it, and suddenly this isn't a game any more. Suddenly this feels like the most important thing that's ever happened to me in my life, and laughter is the furthest thing from my mind. I feel my eyes tearing up.

"Alright," I say, shifting to sit cross-legged facing him. "I promise the same thing; no tricks at home, unless it's by mutual consent. I promise not to try to turn us into Michael and Ben. I promise not to make any more assumptions based on past history. I promise to talk to you, too … if I'm not happy, I'll say so, and why. I expect you to do the same. And we'll work it out. I promise I won't run away any more. I promise I'll never give up on us either, no matter who fucks up. But." This is the hard bit. And perhaps the strongest test.

His eyebrows go up. "There had to be a but."

"I don't want to move back in."

Brian laughs. "Fucking right you don't. Not after all you went through to get your own little garret."

"It's a loft."

"Sunshine, trust me. _This_ is a Loft; yours is a garret."

I whack him on the belly and he goes _Ooof!_ and folds up dramatically.

"You really don't mind?" I ask once I've stopped giggling.

"What, you keeping your place? Of course not. You're not the same kid you were when you were living here … you've got your own way of doing things in your own space. You keep your independence, Sunshine, you worked hard enough to get it. Besides, from a purely practical point of view, it's not a good idea – I think even the Loft would be kind of cramped with that fucking trestle of yours in here. And I really don't think I'm ready to have Rage use my coffee table for a scratch post. Or have my Armani covered in pussy hair." He shudders.

"You know that pussy-thing is getting really old, right?"

He smirks.

"So what are you saying," I snap a little more angrily than I'd meant. "If I ever did decide I'd like to live with you again I'd have to choose between my art, my pet, and you?"

He rolls over and props himself on his elbow, looking down at me. "See, there you go, already breaking your promises." His voice is gently chiding but his smile is warm.

"How?" I demand.

Brian trails his fingertips down my cheek. "You promised not to assume things based on my past behaviour. Yet you're assuming now that I'm pissed and I'm going to either _a_: pretend that I don't give a shit; or _b_: imply that I don't want your shit around in the first place. In actual fact, I never expected you to want to come back here immediately, if at all, for the reasons I've already given you. … do you honestly believe I want you to drop everything and come running back here just because we're together again?" His fingers twist in my hair and he shakes my head gently. "Fuck, Justin, I've waited nearly a year for you … I'm fine about this. More than fine; I'm fucking incredible." He grins as he parrots my words back at me. "And if the time ever comes when you _do_ want us to live together again … then we'll consider our options."

"Which are?"

"Whether we move somewhere larger. Somewhere that suits both of us. Or whether you move back to the Loft anyway, paint, trestle, Rage and all. Either scenario sounds great to me."

I grab his face and lean up to kiss him, but he won't let me.

"But…" he drawls, smirking.

I know that tone.

"There had to be a but…" I sigh.

Brian sticks his tongue in his cheek. "You have to let me buy you a bed, too."

"Brian, my settee's fine…"

"For you, maybe, but not for me. I wouldn't fit on that thing if you cut me off at the knees."

I don't realise my mouth is open until he laughs and reaches out to close it. "What, you'd sleep over at my place? Without a bathroom, and with all the paint, and a_ cat_?"

"I'll come when I'm invited. And I already told you I don't have a problem with any of your shit." He puts on his serious face. "However, I do have one request - that you confine your furry friend to his crate while I'm fucking you. I don't want a set of claws buried in my backside when I'm about to come."

"I think that can be arranged," I laugh.

We kiss on it.

"So, no more fighting?" I ask.

"Oh, we'll fight. About what takeouts we want, and what film to watch, and whether you're going to stop over, and why you won't dress like a grown-up."

"Why you're such a label-queen! Why you won't eat carbs after seven!"

"Why you're so short!"

"I'm not when I'm lying down!" I shoot back, and he laughs.

"We'll have lots of fights, Sunshine. Lots and lots and lots. That's what happens when you have a Top and a would-be-in-any-other-situation Top in a relationship … sparks are gonna fly, thank God. _That_ kind of fighting keeps things interesting. That, plus the incredibly hot make-up sex that comes afterwards."

As we subsequently prove again, broken in or not.

EPILOGUE

BRIAN

I clear my desk for the weekend and close my briefcase. Bob and Brad have fucked up their boards for Brown Athletic again, and I've spent most of the day sorting it out. I really should fire their incompetent asses, but somehow they don't get to me the way they used to.

I have better ways to spend my energy.

I put on my coat and head out of the door.

Cynthia glances up from her desk. "Good night, boss."

"'Night, Cyn."

"No calls this weekend?" she asks, smirking.

"Not unless the fucking place catches fire. And even then, only if you can't reach Vance."

"Have a good time." She's got a big grin on her face now.

I'm pretty sure my own smile is just as large. "Oh, I intend to."

I stand in the elevator, marvelling at this strange, warm glow I seem to be carrying around all the time. It's not that ineptitude and stupidity don't piss me off anymore: they do. I still want my own agency one day, and when I get it I'll have only the best people working for me – loyal, talented, driven. No Bobbsy Twins, no fuck-wits. But I don't beat myself up about it anymore: I can wait. It's only time.

I have other things to look forward to.

Because I know that when I get home tonight, Justin will already be there; it's the Loft weekend. I'm more than ecstatic to spend two weekends a month at his place, but I still prefer it when we're at mine. _My_ Loft has a shower.

Rage has a permanent sitter; the elderly Polish lady on the floor below Justin is a cat lover, and, having lost her own a few months back, is more than happy to have him stay with her while Justin's with me. She even pops in to feed the kitten while Justin's at college.

So twice a month he spends the weekend at the Loft, plus the occasional mid week tryst when the mood takes him.

I walk out of Vanguard and light up a cigarette. I rub my thumb over the Zippo's inscription, as I always do. I'm smiling again.

You can't expect someone who's been blind from birth to grasp the concept of sight. It's not possible. You have to possess something before you can miss it. It might have taken me thirty-one years, but I finally I know the name of it, this strange, warm glow – the thing I never believed in, because I'd never experienced it and I never believed I would.

I'm fucking happy.

_

* * *

_

_One month later._

"Whafuck?"

"Sh, go back to sleep."

"Justin?"

"You were expecting someone else?"

"Uh … isn't it Wednesday?"

"I got cold and lonely."

"Mm. Ow! _Fuck! _You're freezing!"

"Sorry."

"Your ass is like fucking ice."

"Sorry."

"Did you walk back? Again?"

Silence.

"Jesus Christ, Justin, I've told you a hundred times. If you want to come over late, call me or take a fucking cab! Ow!"

"Sorry, sorry. I'll keep my feet off you. See, I'll stay on my side."

"Stop saying _sorry. _Just shut up and come over here."

"Mmm."

"Better?"

"Mmm."

Silence.

"Seriously, I don't want you walking around by yourself. I mean it, Sunshine."

"You're _sooo_ worried about me."

"I just don't like having a fucking iceberg wake me up at two in the morning, that's all!"

"Um."

Silence.

"I only do it because it's so nice … warming up like this when I'm really cold."

"You're a fucking masochist, you know that?"

"You should know better than anyone."

Silence.

"Justin?"

"Um?"

"I'm glad your place hasn't got heating."

"Um."

"I'm glad you got lonely."

"Um."

"I still don't want you walking back, though."

"'kay."

Silence for a while.

"Brian…"

"Mmmm?"

"Why does you kissing me make my toes all warm and tingly?"

"Because you have incredibly sensitive, responsive feet."

"I do?"

"Yeah. Let me show you."

_._

THE END


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